Twenty Moments of a life Never Lived
by Duckie Nicks
Summary: How Joy Cuddy would have changed them both. A series of vignettes exploring Cuddy as a mother and how all of this affects House who is anything but ready for a baby in his life. Spoilers for "Joy." House/Cuddy. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Notes: This fic will be a series of vignettes, some moments more tightly related than others. They are thematically related, not necessarily chronologically so; the first section, a real moment, sets up the other five fake moments in the chapter. Thank you to my beta, Olly, for helping me and encouraging me to finish this.

Please read and review.

_Disclaimer: I don't own it_.

**Twenty Moments of a life Never Lived  
**_By Duckie Nicks_

_Her muscles were unbearably tense, shaking fingers pressed tightly against the warm paper curves of her coffee cup. Her nerves frayed for reasons caffeine couldn't even begin to explain, Cuddy was only relieved that Becca still slept. The other woman's hazel eyes flecked with golds and greens were closed, dark lashes delicately kissing her thick cheeks. Messy blonde strands that Cuddy wished she would brush were splayed out all over the hospital's pillow. Becca's face peaceful, all in all, she looked completely different than Cuddy herself did_.

_The contrast between them stark like ink on paper, like "choose the baby and the mother will die," it felt wrong that even one of them should be so relaxed, given the situation. A scenario so unimaginable, so terrible, and yet so very_ real_, it, perhaps ironically, ate away solely at the woman untied to it. Becca didn't seem to care in that moment, was too ignorant to know just what was at stake; a baby couldn't understand, Cuddy knew that much. _

_Which left_ her, _the one unrelated, to worry about woman_ _and child._

_Throat lurching shut with coffee and cream, concern and fear, Cuddy could feel her own body reject the sentiment she desperately tried to convince herself of. She was_ not _unrelated,_ not _impartial, nor a free-floating entity coined "doctor" whose judgments could solely be based on medical fact. _

_She was_ involved_._

_Try as she might to believe otherwise, Cuddy could not. _

_And that wasn't for a lack of effort on her part; she really did want to believe that she had no stake in this, because it was… safer. House had decided that she wasn't ready to become a mother, and that… by changing her stupid _shirt_, she was admitting that she_ _wasn't sure she wanted this baby. But the truth was…_

_She_ did_. _

_Of all the things Cuddy knew to be true,_ this_ was the one that seemed blessed with the weight of timelessness. Medical facts, gravity, "everybody lies," and House acting like a child all ephemeral truths by comparison, wanting the little girl growing inside of Becca was an absolute _fact.

_But House hadn't been completely wrong; he'd been right to say that, without Becca's cooperation, Cuddy would get_ nothing_. And whereas that fear had been allayed before by giving the young woman reassuring smiles and trying to be nice, it would_ not _go away quietly now. _

_The bleak reality settling in on Cuddy's shoulders once more, she let out a quiet sigh. Air hitching in her throat like a broken rattle trying to soothe, it was a reaction she couldn't suppress, even if she wanted to. Because as safer as it was to pretend as though she had no stake in this, to tell herself that, if Becca chose herself, it would be okay, Cuddy could _not_ believe that. Because…_

_This was her child. _

_A warm hand tentatively unwinding from the coffee mug, she carefully leaned forward across the bed. Gentle fingertips lightly touching the rounded curve of Becca's stomach, Cuddy searched. Palm pressed into the papery patterned hospital gown, she hoped the younger woman would stay asleep. The womb decidedly not Cuddy's but the moment absolutely belonging to her, she didn't want to share this. _

_Especially when she felt _her.

_Becca's stomach shifting quickly all of a sudden, the firm skin pushed back against Cuddy's touch. _

Her_ daughter._

_The smile appearing on Cuddy's sullen face almost immediately, it did not escape her that her own child was consoling _her_._ _The role reversal one Cuddy wished never to experience again, she silently promised – to God, her daughter, whoever – that from now on, it would be _her_ job to reassure. Skinned knees already kissed and bandaged, monsters under the bed already slayed and nightmares soothed before they'd been had, Cuddy would do for her baby exactly what the little girl still in utero had already done for her._

_Cuddy would do all of those things, because she _was_ this child's mother. _

_Her burning eyes glancing over to the fetal monitor, she only wished she wouldn't have to _start _doing it until two weeks from now. _

**I. Two Weeks Old**

In the years after becoming Dean of Medicine, Cuddy could not deny that her life had taken on a particular routine. Work out in the morning, work until five, dinner at six (or later, depending on traffic), bills and paperwork afterwards, a cup of herbal tea at ten, bed at eleven – she had a schedule that she rarely broke.

Actually, thinking about it some more, Cuddy realized that she _never_ broke her routine _herself_. It was always work, usually _House_, who caused interruptions. Because she had no boyfriend, no personal life, no family – nothing that distracted normal people from a life of chamomile and paper.

But…

From now on, that would _never_ be the case again.

Oh, there was still dinner at six and tea at ten; there were still bills to pay and stacks of paperwork to take care of. But now there were things in between and after, little moments to fill in the gaps of her life, to change her day from meaningless to momentous.

Because now there were bottles to warm up at three hour intervals and diapers to change. There were soft circles to rub on a cotton-covered back and lullabies to sing over colicky cries every so often.

There was a _ton_ of laundry to do, the amount of clothes with baby vomit on it far outweighing the clean things Cuddy had left to wear.

There was_ no_ sleep. An hour here and there was the most she could hope for, and that was hardly anything at all. Fussy cries waking her seemingly the minute she closed her eyes, Cuddy would have never guessed that being _this_ deliriously happy was possible.

But it was.

Obviously it was, because even though she was exhausted, her hair knotted and gross, she was… happier than she had ever been.

Looking down at the little girl in her arms, a thin layer of blonde fuzz beginning to cover the baby's head, Cuddy could _feel_ her heart ache with a fullness she had never known. Sleepy blue eyes meeting another set as the child's lips tugged on the bottle, Cuddy watched fascinated.

Joy was only two weeks old, still far too young to do much besides cry and sleep. But to Cuddy, that didn't matter. Because this was _her_ daughter.

Cuddy was someone's – no, _this _child's _Mommy_.

And frankly, that was interesting enough.

**II. Seven Months Old**

Tiny feet kicked arhythmically against the plastic of the high chair. A cane meticulously tapped against the linoleum floor in regular intervals. Two babies in the room, one smearing oatmeal onto the high chair tray with her hands, the other chomping arrogantly on an apple he had not asked for, Cuddy wasn't sure how an only child household could have so much sibling rivalry.

Apparently, she thought with a sigh, she had underestimated House's ability to insinuate himself into her life. And in that moment, the mother couldn't help but be grateful that she had adopted a child and had, as a result, not been able to nurse. Because, in her mind anyway, there was absolutely _no doubt_ that House would have been right there as Joy ate, pawing at Cuddy's other breast for milk.

As it were, the man-child in her kitchen wasn't too happy to share her attention. Not that she could seriously blame him in this instance.

Cuddy's mind caught between her chubby-cheeked Caravaggio refusing to eat the breakfast on the spoon held out to her, the oatmeal splatting onto the ground and Joy's clothes, and the symptoms House was listing as justification for a dangerous test – she couldn't really concentrate on much of anything.

Pulling the bowl of quickly cooling oatmeal out of Joy's reach (much to the little girl's dismay), Cuddy caught the tail end of House's argument. Or rather, she heard him take a quick detour from medical fact to personal insult. "Elevated heart rate, liver failure… you're not listening to me. Your breasts are lop-sided, you know. And your vagina -"

Turning away from her daughter, Cuddy gave the intruder a threatening look. "Finish that sentence, and you will _never_ get me to sign off on –"

"Cause standing here, watching a baby outsmart you is oh so _productive_," he pointed out irritably. And as if on cue, Joy punctuated the moment by knocking the yellow plastic bowl of oatmeal onto the floor. The clatter quickly followed by the blonde clapping her sticky hands together in excitement, it was proof enough that breakfast was over.

Picking the bowl up off of the floor, Cuddy told House, "I'm sorry that I can't give you my full attention." Her voice only sounded halfway sincere, she thought as she placed the dirty bowl into the sink. "But you need to accept that things are different now and that I_ can't_ put everything on hold for you." Wetting a sponge, she gave him a meaningful glance before heading back to the high chair.

Meticulously, Cuddy began to scrub the oatmeal off of everything in sight – her daughter's tiny hands and delicate mouth, the tray of the high chair and the linoleum. It was hardly a task she wanted to do – especially when bending over to clean the floor meant giving House a great shot of her ass. But if there was one thing Cuddy had learned over the months since bringing Joy home, it was that messes needed to be cleaned the second they occurred or else they never would be taken care of.

"Yeah, that's great," House replied sarcastically. "My patient's _dying_ at roughly the same rate you've lost brain cells to this… this _thing_, and –"

Cuddy immediately, absent-mindedly corrected, "Joy is a baby, not a thing." How many times was she going to have to tell him that?

But he ignored the correction and kept talking. "He might actually _live_ if you let me do this procedure _right now_." He was getting louder, angrier, and in return, she could feel her own breathing start to become more shallow, a blush spreading across her cheeks, and a growl threatening to escape her. Especially when he told her, "But I'll wait till you get your head out of your _baby's_ butt. We have plenty of time, cause it's not like it's a matter of life and death or anything," he told her snidely. "If he dies now, I'll be _sure_ to tell the widow we _could_ have saved her husband, but it was more important that the parasite ate all of her –"

"_Right_," she snapped, spinning around to glare at him. "Because this _isn't_ wasting time? You standing here yelling at me and insulting my daughter? That's _not_ completely distracting you from your diagnosis and from getting your damn test approval?"

Her own voice was now louder than it needed to be, angrier than it should have been. Her tone one House was definitely familiar with by now, it was one, however, that _Joy_ had never heard. The animosity and curtness in Cuddy's voice so out of place, it was surprising, but not entirely so, that the little girl promptly burst into tears.

Joy's sobs loud and shrill, she screamed. Her cries containing no words, as Cuddy spun around, it was impossible _not_ to understand what the little girl wanted. Big brown eyes wide, fearful, and watery with tears, plump cheeks red and pink lips turned down into a frown – she was afraid, her tiny hands reaching out for Mommy.

And Cuddy was eager to give her child exactly what she wanted. Easily plucking Joy out of the plastic confines of the high chair, Cuddy held her sticky daughter close. The hand supporting the little girl patting her diapered bottom reassuringly, the other hand brushed back thin blonde curls sticky with oatmeal.

A litany of kisses placed along Joy's warm forehead followed by whispers and reassurances of, "It's okay" and "It's all right," the baby in her arms was all Cuddy could focus on.

Her attention completely undivided, she hadn't even noticed that House was making his way towards her front door. His presence only known when he muttered, "Babies never fight fair," it was another reminder of why Joy was _absolutely_ Cuddy's favorite baby.

It wasn't until much later, after a bath and nap, that the mother realized House was right:

Babies didn't fight fair.

Because, in that moment, there was no doubt in Cuddy's mind that he'd left to do the test anyway, regardless of what she might have said had he stuck around.

**III. Three Years Old**

She was exhausted, in desperate need of calamine lotion, Benadryl, and sleep in equal measures. The last two nights of dealing with Joy's chicken pox and now her _own_ unnecessary bout with shingles having completely worn her out, Cuddy was more than ready to slather the antipruritc on them both, drug them to the gills, and fall asleep before the sun set.

She'd earned a night as uncomplicated as that. She hadn't itched the rash sprawled across her stomach, arms, and chest - well, not that _much_ anyway. She'd done all the work she would have ordinarily taken home with her, _and_ more impressive than anything else, Cuddy hadn't scratched House's eyes out in an act of living vicariously when he'd quipped loudly that she'd given her own daughter herpes.

All in all, she'd been good the entire day, earning cosmic brownie points from who knew what.

But if she'd expected to collect with an easy evening, Cuddy realized very quickly how mistaken she was. The calamine lotion was gone, as was the Benadryl she wanted to take. The child's version of the same drug was still nestled in her medicine cabinet, but the bubble gum flavored Pedialyte and those repulsive little hot dogs designed for toddlers – otherwise known as the sole things Joy would willingly eat when she wasn't feeling well – were almost gone.

And that meant, instead of going home after work, Cuddy had to drag her sick, itchy, and post-nap preschooler to the grocery store.

Which seemed like a perfectly horrible way to end the day.

The unbidden images of having to convince her cranky daughter that ten minutes in the grocery store was necessary coming to mind, it was with great dismay that Cuddy drove to the supermarket.

But, whether a gift from God or just sheer luck, the trip turned out so much better than she could have ever anticipated.

Joy's tiny face pressed into the collar of her mother's coat, long blonde hair tickling Cuddy's forearm, the sick child seemed reluctant to part with her naptime. Caught between that warm nexus of wanting to wake up and explore the bright lights of the store and remain asleep in her mother's warm embrace, the little girl allowed herself to be carried around the grocery store.

Only occasionally waking up – usually to the metallic ting of something being added to the cart – Joy was content to stay where she was. Sooty lashes only parting for a fraction of a second, a tiny hand irritably pushed strands of blonde hair out of her face when she did wake up. Big brown eyes lost with the unfamiliar sights around her, she would look left and right and then up.

The sight of her Mommy, though partially obscured by light and dark hair, was enough to make Joy sigh and lay her head back down without a word.

**IV. Five Years Old**

From the beginning, Cuddy was honest about the adoption with everyone, including her own daughter. Afraid that lying implied shame, and even more afraid that _House_ would tell Joy the truth in the most insensitive way imaginable, she really only ever could tell the truth.

But as someone who didn't know where babies came from, Joy had a hard time understanding what "adoption" precisely meant. Or rather, she could comprehend that there had been another woman involved, another mommy who had known she couldn't give her baby all of the things a baby deserved.

And frankly, Cuddy had thought that, for now anyway, that was enough to know. Joy didn't need to know that she hadn't spent thirty-eight weeks in her mother's womb; she didn't need to know that they didn't share DNA or any of the other things she was too young to truly understand.

But then, leave it to _House_ to change that in a conversation that could have only lasted thirty seconds at most.

Having been allowed the privilege of a lollipop, Joy had trotted out of Cuddy's office that afternoon. A prideful smile on her delicate features, the little girl had disappeared into the clinic, her blonde curls swinging behind her.

A minute later, or maybe it was two, when she skipped back into the office, a giant grin on her face, Cuddy was anything but prepared for her daughter, sans lollipop, to exclaim as loudly as she could, "I just saw a woman's _boobies_ in the clinic, Mommy! _And_ there was a baby, _and_ Dr. House says that if you squeeze hard enough, _milk_ comes out of her boobs!" Joy spoke as though she'd just discovered the grossest, coolest, weirdest thing ever, and much to Cuddy's dismay, she was not the sole one to hear about such a discovery.

The door connecting her office to her secretary's was still wide open, Joy hanging in the doorframe. The door to the clinic was also open, the breastfeeding mother in the clinic no doubt aware that she was being viewed as little more than an animal in the circus.

And, of course, there was the reason Joy had been sent to get a lollipop in the first place: the conference call that Cuddy was having on _speakerphone_ with one of her most generous donors. His muffled chuckles were audible as Joy turned the question back to her and started to ask, "Does that mean if I squeeze your –"

"I'm going to have to call you back, David," Cuddy said quickly, harried, her cheeks red and hand reaching to hang up the phone before he'd even had a chance to agree.

The receiver clattering loudly back into its cradle, the noise was muffled by the sound of Cuddy fluidly standing up and stalking toward the door. "Joy…" She was trying to hedge, trying to keep her daughter who _clearly_ needed _another_ reminder of what constituted an outdoor conversation quiet.

"I wanna know," Joy said in a tone that was somewhere between a whine and a warning.

But instead of an explanation, Cuddy quietly, unceremoniously guided, a hand pressing between her shoulder blades, her child into her office. Closing the door behind them, the mother tried very hard _not_ to notice the amused look her assistant was sending her way. And honestly, that was pretty easy to do when Cuddy caught sight of House.

His body leaning against the nurse's desk, a lollipop in his mouth, he was obviously watching _her_, wanting to see what she would do.

Through the wooden rods running along the door, Cuddy shot him a glare.

"Mommy?" The voice much more tentative than the insistent hand tugging at the hem of her shirt, Joy repeated her name. "Is it true?"

Trying to find the words she should say to her daughter, Cuddy silently guided the little girl to the couch in her office. The two sitting next to one another, she decided to go for honesty, if only because, once again, lying would hurt Cuddy herself in the long run. Especially if House ever told Joy the truth. Which seemed inevitable now.

"Is it true, is it true?" the little girl repeated a couple of times, her voice singsong.

"Well…"

Brown eyes becoming wider and brighter with realization, Joy squealed, "It _is_ true!" Her daughter excitedly pulling her short legs onto the couch, she scrambled to move closer to Cuddy and onto her lap.

"Yes, Joy, but –" Her words were abruptly cut off by an uncharacteristic squeal of her own; two cold hands practically pawing at her chest, Cuddy, red-faced and dismayed, couldn't help but think wryly that this was almost as bad as going on a date with House.

Silently, she plucked Joy's hands off of her body. "Nooooo," the little girl whined, a pout quickly pulling on her lips. "I want milk!"

"_I_ don't have any milk to give," Cuddy replied loudly, flustered that this conversation was even taking place. "And even if at some point I _did_," she added immediately. "You are _five_ years old – plenty old enough to use a cup."

Joy folded her arms angrily across her chest. "But Dr. House said –"

"What have I told you about listening to _Dr. House_?" Cuddy interrupted, peering down at her daughter.

"'Never, ever, _ever_ listen to Dr. House,'" the little girl intoned in a way that sounded exactly as though Cuddy herself had said it.

Which made Cuddy curious. "Are you pretending to be me when you say that?" Joy's enthusiastic nod made her smile.

Less amusing was House piping up at that moment, "Got the voice right, but the ass needs a lot of work if she wants to really be you." Of course he would curse in front of her child without a concern in the world.

Her lips quickly turning downward into something that was half-frown, half-scowl, Cuddy told him, "I hope you're happy."

"Oh, I'm _thrilled_," he quipped.

"Joy _isn't_," she pointed out. "Now, I'm going to have to explain why –"

Waving her concern off, House replied, "She'll get over it."

"She –"

"We _all_ have disappointments in life, Cuddy." Seriously he added, "If I can accept that you don't have beer-flavored nipples –"

"Not that I'll be letting you within five feet of them _now_ even if I did," she muttered, gently pushing Joy off of her lap before standing up. A punishment for him quickly forming in her mind, Cuddy was also aware that it would be a good way to get Joy out of her hair – at least long enough for her to finish the phone conversation she'd tried to have earlier.

"You've been saying that for years," House told her as she rummaged through her purse for cash. "I've yet to see you actually stick to –"

"Want to see me stick to something, House?" Not giving him the chance to respond, Cuddy turned to Joy, who had started to pick at the flowers on her coffee table. "Come here, sweetheart," she said kindly, holding a hand out to the little girl.

"Since you want milk," Cuddy explained, brushing a stray strand of blonde hair out of her daughter's face. "Dr. House here is going to take you to the cafeteria."

Joy's cheer was only outdone by House's groan. Placing the twenty-dollar bill into Joy's small hands, Cuddy said, "You're going to by him some French fries, so he doesn't cry like a baby." As an afterthought, she told her, "_Don't_ give him any of the change, sweetheart."

"Okay," Joy said with an exaggerated nod of the head.

"_And_," Cuddy added. "You can explain to Dr. House why it's important to be _nice_ to other –"

"Says the woman letting her _three year old_ –"

"I'm not _three_," Joy interrupted angrily.

"Really?" House asked looking down at the blonde girl who had her hands on her hips. "Cause you look like you're _two_."

"I am five and _two quarters_, you _moron_!" Ignoring him when he pointed out that two quarters were the same as a half, Joy stomped over to him and grabbed his hand. "I don't care," she told him irritably. "Now lets go before I kick you."

As she tugged him along, House glanced back at Cuddy, who was too amused at the way her daughter was bossing him around to chastise her.

Not that Cuddy really _could_ correct her daughter for calling House a moron or for threatening him. After all, how many times a _day_ did she find herself doing that?

Flinging the door to her office open, Joy pulled House along. His steps slower than hers, he used the extra time to tell Cuddy, "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you spawned her in that cold, _barren_ womb of yours and nursed her with your _bitter_ harpy milk yourself."

The words lacking any real bite, the meaning remained with Cuddy longer after the pair left. Long ago, the mother had understood that her daughter didn't particularly care for House. He was rude and competitive and occasionally down right mean, and honestly Joy responded in kind.

And yet that never stopped the two from spending time together, despite Cuddy's efforts to keep House away.

The friendship (for lack of a better word) between Joy and House completely inexplicable and yet somehow unbreakable, it had been proof of a fact Cuddy had already learned to accept; it was the same truth House was saying in not so many words now:

Like mother, like daughter.

**V. Fourteen Years Old**

Ever since Wilson got married (again), House found himself spending an increasing amount of time with Cuddy. Which was easy, considering they'd become closer over the years anyway. Occasionally relying on one another for support, even more commonly finding themselves in bed together, they had slowly, seamlessly transitioned into something that couldn't quite fit under the umbrella of friendship.

Which wasn't to say, of course, that House was _okay_ with seeing less of Wilson. Cuddy, even at her age, had a great ass, but her cooking couldn't compare to Wilson's. The fish in front of him now good but not nearly as good as Wilson's pancakes, it just wasn't the same.

Of course, Cuddy was… nicer overall about the whole thing. Or maybe that wasn't precisely true, but she _was_ willing to get up and refill his plate, and House (and his leg) was grateful for that.

Then again, as she was dishing up another piece of Tilapia for him, Joy, who was ten minutes late for dinner, rushed into the house. And he couldn't help but think that no amount of courtesy from Cuddy could make up for the childhood memories being evoked. His stomach turning slightly at the memory appearing before his eyes, House was helpless to stop it.

Half-expecting Cuddy to yell or send the _other_ Cuddy away without food, he felt trapped. Unable to avoid the train that would surely wreck itself in the kitchen right then and there.

"Sorry I'm late," Joy said. "Some idiot decided today would be a good day to return two years' worth of overdue books to the library. I got stuck behind him."

Cuddy frowned. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. Hungry?" The words murmured sympathetically, the lateness gone essentially unnoticed, it was so… unfamiliar to him.

Oh, he had known as a child that his father's treatment was _unfair_, and long after that, yes, he had realized that it bordered on abuse. But even so, nevertheless, he couldn't help but be taken with this tiny, banal moment that he was witnessing.

"No," she replied immediately, her own gaze turning to House. Brightly, she said, "But feel free to give my share to the dog." A smirk spread across her face, but it still wasn't enough to bait House, who was still too surprised to respond. Stunned, Joy said, "Okay… I'm going to go study."

It wasn't until long after she left, after Cuddy had said it was too late for him to drive home, and after they'd settled in bed together, her stomach pressed into his back, that he spoke. "I was thinking today… you're not bad at this."

The hand that had been tenderly running up and down his injured thigh paused. "Not bad at what?" she asked tiredly, her breath warm against the back of his neck.

His answer was hesitant, quiet. "Being… a mother."

Her immediate response is an "Oh" followed by silence. After a brief pause, Cuddy said, "Well, you've _already_ had sex, so that can't be what you want. So… unless I'm missing something," she concluded, sounding confused. Coming out as a half-sentence, half-question, she finished, "You actually mean it?"

He said nothing, eliciting another, "Oh," this one more surprised, from her.

Snottily she finally said, "Well, it's only been _fourteen years_ since I adopted Joy." Her tones softening, she eventually conceded, "But it's nice to hear you say that."

And House couldn't help but ruin the moment then. The conversation turning into something too… _meaningful_, he had to ask, "So do I get laid now?"

"No," she told him harshly, the smiling lips pressed against his neck daring him to press his luck.

_End Part 1_


	2. Chapter 2

_The O.R. was silent, each quiet moment following Chase pulling the little girl from the uterus morphing the room into a tomb. A potential funeral procession of blue scrubs, of sterile equipment and bright lights surrounding her, Cuddy could feel it all slipping through her grasp – her dreams, her future, her daughter._

_Her_ daughter.

_Nanoseconds expanding into hours, her hope was stretched beyond the breaking point. Following what must have only been the first ten seconds, each moment the silence continued was too painful to comprehend. Her daughter making absolutely no sound, Cuddy could feel the tears well in her eyes; her body was beginning to understand what her mind could not._

_How could there be_ nothing?

_How could_ _House be quiet when he seemed so intent on getting her attention since he'd learned about the adoption? How could a team of her employees stand around without an immediate solution? How could a birth be filled with so much_ silence?

_The painful reality clamping tightly around her heart, she couldn't help but wonder how all of this, how almost thirty-eight weeks of pregnancy and years of trying to have a child – how the efforts of two could-be mothers could end with nothing. _

_A pleading voice suddenly filling the silent air, Cuddy didn't recognize it as her own. The noise too desperate, too sad, a part of her was unable to put the two together – the sound and the one responsible. Two plus two somehow not totaling four in the same way a newborn and silence didn't equate to something rational, her pleas went unnoticed by herself. _

_Because all she could think was cry, cry, cry. _Cry.

_An internal chant she couldn't stop repeating, cry cry cry, Cuddy could almost believe if she said it enough times, it would come true. Her body thrumming on that energy, it was all she heard. Not the apologies from Becca, nor the slick sounds of Chase trying to rouse the baby – just the sound of herself and the sight of her future becoming bleaker by the second. _

_Hope quickly began to funnel itself into something darker, something she didn't dare to name. Her hands shaking, fidgeting around her, her feet took slow steps towards the lifeless infant._

_Absolutely sure that Chase was going to turn to her at any moment and shake his head, she nearly let out a cry of her own when Joy did. The tiny wail quieter than any sound Cuddy had ever heard a baby make, she was almost sure she'd imagined the noise. _

_Until it got louder. _

_And then, holding the squirming, warm bundle in her arms, Cuddy could see:_

_There_ _was_ _still hope. Because…_

_There was life._

_There was joy._

**VI. Four Years Old**

Her head resting against the flannel covered pillow, Cuddy was easily on the cusp of sleep. Eyelids heavy and desperate to stay closed, giving into her exhaustion would have been so easy… if not for the four year old who expected to be read to.

Lazily propping her head onto her elbow, Cuddy glanced over toward the bookshelf the blonde was looking at. "Sweetie," she said tiredly, her voice already raspy with sleep. "Please pick something already. Mommy's going to fall asleep very soon if you don't decide."

Turning back to look at her with a frown on her face, Joy asked sadly, "Just one story?"

"Yes, Joy." Her daughter opening her mouth to whine, Cuddy explained, "I'd love to read more but not tonight. Mommy can't." She wanted to add, "Now hurry up before I'm too tired for one" but didn't. The words harsher than Joy deserved, they remained inside of Cuddy where they belonged.

Closing her eyes once more, she didn't know how much longer the blonde spent looking for the perfect book. It could have been a few seconds, minutes, or easily longer, but Cuddy _did_ know that, when Joy climbed back on the bed, she had two books in her hands.

Cuddy's tired eyes suddenly turning steely, she pointed out, "I said I would read _one_ story."

"I can't decide," Joy whined, the late hour apparently wearing on her mood as well.

"All right," Cuddy replied with a sigh. "Lets see what the options are."

As she mulled over the choices, Joy settled down under the covers beside her mother, who couldn't have been less enthusiastic about the two selected books.

Oh, she supposed they were good enough choices, ones she wouldn't have minded under normal circumstances anyway. But right now, too exhausted to think much less enunciate her words perfectly, Cuddy immediately realized that a book called _Click Clack Quackity Quack_ was hardly something she should attempt to read; the chances of her messing the words up too great, she set the book aside quickly.

Not that the other option was much better. _If you give a cat a Cupcake_ was easily one of Joy's favorites. The whole series made her laugh, but somehow Cuddy couldn't quite appreciate the books in the same manner. How could she when, in so many respects, her own life resembled those stories? Her own personal book, _If you give an ass a Job_, she couldn't ever truly enjoy the series.

Somehow, reading about one bad thing happening after the other hit too close to home on days like this. On days where House nearly set the hospital on fire to get what he wanted to, anyway.

And yet almost immediately, Cuddy knew her life was _so much _richer than that. Forcing herself to adopt a better mood, she put the book aside. "You know…" she said carefully, an idea slowly coming to her. "I think I have a better idea." Dark eyes peering up at her expectantly, Cuddy asked, "Would you like to hear how Mommy decided to name you Joy?"

Truthfully of all the stories she had ever created for her daughter, _this_ was the only one that Joy had deemed any good. Or at least this was the only one she'd ever wanted to hear over and over. Their personal record three times in one day, Cuddy was not surprised to see the blonde enthusiastically nod her head up and down. Thick strands of hair moving every which way, Cuddy began to slowly card through it as she started her tale.

"Years ago," she said, "Before Mommy was your mommy or anyone's mommy, she was all alone."

"Did that make you sad, Mommy?" Joy interrupted, already knowing exactly where the story was headed. Her face was sweetly full of concern.

"It did, Joy," Cuddy replied with a nod of her head, her arms instinctively bringing the little girl closer to her. Pressing a kiss to Joy's crown of white blonde curls, she said, "It did. I was very sad."

And that was no exaggeration, she realized. At the time, she hadn't really seen it, her melancholy somehow hidden from her own eyes. Which might have been because of her job – how could she recognize her own misery when there were people suffering from so much worse around her?

"All I _ever_ wanted," Cuddy said fervently. "Was my own little baby to love and care for and raise."

Joy smiled, looking up at her. Seemingly unable to resist interrupting her once more, she asked, "And my other Mommy gave me to you?"

"That's right," Cuddy replied, her own grin natural. Arms pulling her daughter into an even fiercer embrace, she continued, "Your other mommy was a very nice girl who was just too young to take care of you. And she loved you very much, but she knew she couldn't give you all of the things she wanted you to have. So she gave you to me, and I became your mommy."

Kissing Joy on the forehead, she told her, "And _that_ made me happier than I ever thought possible, sweetheart. _You_, Joy, have made me _so_ happy that the moment I held you, I thought my heart was going to burst from being so full." Smiling, Cuddy admitted, "I _still_ feel that way – that's how much I love you."

Her lips moving towards Joy's ear, Cuddy nearly whispered conspiratorially, "And that's why I called you Joy. Because you _are_. You're my joy – sweet and perfect, and I love you."

"Love you too, Mommy," Joy replied, the words intoxicatingly sweet to the mother's ears.

How she could have ever gone without _this_, Cuddy would never know. The memories of coming home to an empty house too potent to ignore in that moment, she couldn't help but change her mind then and there; she was tired, but sleep could wait. Reaching over, she grabbed the two books she'd placed on the nightstand and murmured, "You know… I think we have to read both of these after all…"

**VII. Five Years Old**

He was stuck with Cranky-Barfy Pants here – the irony of the situation all too clear to him even from the beginning.

Of all the people who should baby-sit, House was absolutely sure he was at the bottom of the list. Well, honestly, how could he _not_ be convinced of such a fact? In his attempts to suggest people much better suited for looking after Joy, he'd learned why everyone else couldn't. Cuddy couldn't take the puking pipsqueak with her – the meeting across down not appropriate for a five year old. The rest of Cuddy's family lived too far away; no daycare would take a sick child. The babysitter, the one responsible for Joy getting sick in the first place, was out. As were Cameron and Chase, the former too busy working, the latter too disturbed by Joy's obvious crush on him.

Wilson had work, Cuddy had said, to which House had protested, "So do I."

"_You_ are bouncing a ball, while your fellows run tests," she'd pointed out, putting her daughter, who looked disturbingly green, onto his Eames chair. "You can handle this. All you'll have to do is hold her hair back when she throws up, give her the Pedialyte that she likes when she asks for it, and walk her to the bathroom if she needs to go."

"Those are three things I don't want to do," he'd said honestly.

"_House_." Cuddy had sounded frustrated, imploring, but not angry. "Please?"

Seriously he'd asked, "What do I get in return?"

"What do you want?"

His silence, coupled with a pointed look, had been answer enough, and with a roll of her eyes, she'd told him, "I'll reserve accepting that _romantic_ offering until I see how you do with her."

"Meaning what exactly – I drop her on her head, I only get a hand – "

"Finish that, and my answer's no," she'd warned.

So House had stayed quiet, and she'd left, and everything had seemed okay at first. The runt had whined a bit, but Joy had fallen asleep quickly afterwards. And for a moment, a very _brief_ moment, he'd actually believed that this was the least effort he'd ever had to make to get laid (by someone who didn't require cash upfront, anyway).

But then the barfing brat had woken up, and now he was sure there was no move in the Kama Sutra that could make up for _this_.

In the hours she was with him, Joy threw up three times. The smell of artificial bubblegum flavor and stomach acid filling the room as she puked into his trashcan, he tried _very hard_ to imagine all of the inappropriate things he could make Cuddy do. Schoolgirl fantasies and the like giving him the slightest bit of hope, House was just beginning to think he could handle things.

But then she started crying, big fat tears rolling down her cheeks, and asking for Cuddy. And resisting the urge to sarcastically say that Mommy had abandoned her, he instead started to wipe the puke off the side of her mouth (using her t-shirt as a rag, naturally). Gruffly, he told her, "Your mom's in a meeting. You're stuck with me."

The "Nooooo" she wailed in response was not that different from the way he felt in that moment.

"Oh, shut up," he told her. "She's coming back." She'd better, he added mentally. If only so he could tell her just how inappropriate the name "Joy" had been; obviously "Bed-of-Nails" or "Annoyance" would have been better choices, he thought grimly.

And as if to prove the point, her cries at that moment got louder. Wailing "Mommy" over and over, Joy was quickly working herself up, much to his dismay. Or rather much to his _head's_ dismay. Because he could have honestly listened to her cry and ignored her easily, he supposed, but he could _not _take the high pitch of her voice and the headache she was beginning to cause.

"Hey!" he said loudly, the sheer volume of the word giving her pause. As she sniffled, her tiny body shaking from the effort, House told her, "I get it – you want Mommy. Right about now," he said pointedly. "So do _I_."

"You want your mommy too?" Joy asked sadly, looking up at him.

He scoffed. "_No_. I want _your _Mommy. Preferably naked and tied up. But, like I said, Mommy's in a meeting, which means," he said slowly, gesturing with his hands, as he brought them both to the end of the thought process. "I'm stuck with you, and you're just going to have to deal with Mommy not being here like everyone else does: grow up, do lots of drugs, have lots of dangerous sex with boys you don't know. Drink until you puke and then get tons of therapy."

As if to prove his point, House reached into his pocket and pulled out his prescription of Vicodin.

Not entirely following the conversation, she could only whine in response, "But I don't _have_ anything to drink." She stomped her foot for good measure.

Remembering what Cuddy had said, House rolled his eyes and limped towards the Eames chair. She'd mentioned Pedialyte and had left a hot pink and purple bag by the chair; the colors clearly not _her_ taste, it had to belong to Joy. Or maybe Cameron's, he thought wryly. But since she didn't work here anymore…

Quickly searching through the girly backpack, he found the bright pink drink that Joy was apparently fond of.

Holding it out to the small blonde, he told her, "Drink this."

She did.

_Quietly_ she did, thankfully.

The temporary respite from puke and tears and whining absolutely appreciated, House couldn't help but curl up in the recliner by the door. His eyes shut and mind purposely trying to ignore the nuisance currently inhabiting _his_ space, he was unprepared, if not surprised, by Joy eventually climbing onto the chair with him.

Tiny hands and feet, sharp elbows and kneecaps pressing into his stomach and _thigh_ uncomfortably, it was all he could do not to violently push her away. His own hands curling into fists as she situated herself around him, he didn't dare to breathe, much less speak. His sight going white as her heel scraped against his thigh, the pain lanced through him hotly, and he couldn't help but cry out in pain.

The sharp ache all he could pay attention to, it took him a moment to comprehend what happened next. "Joy!" Cuddy said loudly, her heels noisy even on the carpet. The little girl's uncomfortable weight immediately vanishing, House didn't understand at first what was going on.

But the waves of pain slowly, _achingly _slowly receding to normal levels, he was able to open his eyes once more. Sweat pooling uncomfortably on the small of his back and along his forehead, he was made even less comfortable by the way Cuddy was looking at him. Her gaze almost _tender_, she seemed to be under the delusion that he'd just done something amazing.

Concerned etched on every feature, Joy in her lap, she carefully sat down next to him. "Are you okay?"

"Just peachy," he replied sarcastically through gritted teeth.

"Vicodin?" she asked with concern.

Unfortunately aware of how quickly his liver could process the acetaminophen, House shook his head.

Cuddy placed a hand on his then, her fingertips and voice warm as she admitted, "I thought you were going to… I'm surprised you didn't _kill_ her."

His own thoughts not much more hopeful about his self-control, House said nothing. Unable to deny what she was saying, nor in the mood to maintain his sarcasm any longer, he simply closed his eyes instead. Very eager for his pain to subside to something manageable, he tried to ignore it.

And trying to focus on what was going on around him, he listened to Cuddy turn her attentions to Joy. "Sweetheart," she said calmly. "Why were you climbing on Dr. House? You know you can't do that because of his leg and…" She kept talking, but he no longer wanted to listen. Harder to forget about something if you had to listen to it being discussed, he thought.

So, eyes closed, he mused about the deal he'd made with Cuddy. There was no doubt in his mind that he'd get laid now, although that was _obviously_ going to have to wait; there was no way in hell his leg would handle _that_ today.

But… _eventually_, he'd be able to collect.

Of course, House realized almost immediately, all of that hinged on living long enough. And frankly, he was more convinced than ever of one thing:

The Cuddys were going to be the death of him.

**VIII. About Thirteen Months Old… he thinks**

Thanksgiving 2009 (or to be technical, the day _before_ Thanksgiving 2009).

That had been the first time they had sex – since Joy had been born anyway. And looking back on it now, House kind of wished they _hadn't_ done it then.

Or no.

That wasn't true.

He would never _actually_ regret looking at Cuddy naked. But doing it right before a holiday meant that he would never really forget the date (even though Thanksgiving wasn't usually on the "anniversary"), and _that_ meant it would always look like it… _meant_ something.

And maybe it did, to Cuddy anyway.

Thanksgiving 2009, she'd made plans to fly to her sister's for dinner. He had made plans as well… to stay in his apartment and get drunk enough so that he'd have a legitimate reason for watching the Westminster Dog Show. And, deciding to be pro-active, House had decided why not start drinking the day before?

Preparing himself for a two-day binge, he had barely started on his first beer when the phone had rung. His first instinct to ignore it, he'd taken a long pull from the bottle instead. The answering machine picking up, he hadn't expected it to be her, hadn't expected it to be anyone of importance actually. And so, when she'd started to speak, he hadn't been able to stop himself from glancing over at the small appliance on a stand by the couch.

Her voice sounding unlike he'd ever heard it before, House had immediately noted that she'd obviously been crying.

"I know you're there… I… please don't ignore me," she'd said, as though she'd been able to tell that he was listening. Cuddy's voice getting softer, she'd said, "I, um, I need you to do something for me." At that moment, she'd sniffled loudly into the phone. "There's been a thing at the airport, and a little girl went missing, and now they're saying that…" She'd paused, her voice becoming higher pitched on the last word. "They're saying Joy isn't mine, and."

She'd stopped talking.

Unable to continue, she'd broken down into tears, into loud audible sobs that he'd been unable to ignore. Quickly snatching the phone up, House had gruffly asked, "What do you need?"

The answer had been obvious: proof – in the form of birth certificates, adoption records, and photos tucked into a lock box inside of Cuddy's home. And having gotten pretty good at breaking into her house, he'd managed to be in and out with the procured items in under ten minutes.

But with the drive to the airport, finding a parking space on the day before Thanksgiving and then locating Cuddy, he'd taken more time than he supposed she wanted him to take. Although, as he'd walked through the little airport police station, House had thought to himself, if she planned on yelling at him, he could just turn around and walk out and be done with the whole thing.

His mind gearing up for a fight, it had been shocking for him to find a quietly crying Cuddy with Joy in her lap sitting on one of the dark plastic chairs. Her head had been bent, forehead pressed to her daughter's. Dark curls messily framing Cuddy's face, it had made it hard to tell how things were going.

Having no idea what had happened since he'd last spoke to her, House had approached her slowly. His mouth suddenly feeling dry, he hadn't known what to say, hadn't known how to broach the subject. So instead he'd stood in front of her, hands tapping on his cane, waiting for her to look up.

His presence almost immediately known to her, Cuddy had looked up, her eyes red and watery. Giving him a weak smile, she'd answered his unspoken question, "Finally believed me." She had swallowed hard and explained. "Of course, nothing _I_ said mattered. They… brought the woman whose baby went missing, and she said that Joy wasn't hers, and they _still_ thought she wasn't mine. Until Joy, the little girl who calls _everyone_ Mama, said it to me." Shaking her head, Cuddy had added in frustration, "By _luck_."

His reaction had been to contemplate sarcastically asking her to say that louder. _Really_, he'd thought in irritation, did she think it was a good idea to announce to everyone in a five foot radius that Joy was dumb enough to call anyone, including Wilson, "Mama"? The question just on the tip of his tongue, it had been with effort that he'd kept it to himself.

Which hadn't been to say that he'd kept the sarcasm completely to himself. "So I just wasted the last couple hours of time for nothing," House had concluded.

"You can drive us home," Cuddy had told him, her voice almost making it seem as though she were offering him some sort of consolation prize.

Really, he'd thought he should have refused. After all House had _had_ better plans for himself; getting trashed for two days wasn't exactly a productive way to pass the time, but it had been something he'd practically set his heart on doing. His schedule for the next two days already neatly laid out for him, he hadn't been all that interested in giving his boss a ride home.

But then it had almost seemed stupid to refuse to do it. All things considered, House had realized that it wouldn't be the _worst_ way to waste a few hours of his life. Cuddy was being weepy and emotional, he'd understood, and that was a downside, but overall? He'd realized things could have been worse.

The year old pipsqueak could have been crying, and she wasn't, he'd reasoned. The blonde's focus on the necklace Cuddy was wearing, she'd been more quiet than he'd ever thought possible. Little fingers tugging lightly at the pearls, she'd been practically entranced by the tiny white spheres.

And in the very least, if he agreed to do it, House had understood… he'd be able to use this against Cuddy in the future.

He would be able to manipulate her into giving him what he'd wanted.

So he'd said, "Lets go."

For the record, and not that there was any _record_ other than his own memories, he'd never planned on having sex. As opportunistic a bastard as House would admit to being, he hadn't ever contemplated using this against her for _that_.

Not that anyone would ever believe him on the matter – not even Wilson who had never quite looked convinced when House had said Cuddy had been the one to initiate things.

But she _had_ been.

In all honesty, House realized much later he probably should have seen it coming. On the ride home, as Joy had slept soundly in her car seat, Cuddy had admitted to him slowly, "I thought… having her would make me less lonely."

Sighing, he'd responded quickly, "I'm going to regret asking this. It didn't?"

Her answer hadn't been immediate. Her silence stretching out for nearly a minute, it had almost convinced him that maybe Cuddy had no plans to say anything. Which he'd automatically taken as a sign, as proof that he really shouldn't have asked the question.

"All I kept thinking today," she'd said shakily. "While I was trying to convince them that she was my daughter was –"

"That you'd had to call me?" he'd finished for her. "And that if you had to call _me_ to bail you out of baby trouble, you must have made some wrong choices in life?"

There'd been no venom in his tones, no hurt in his words. Because if there had been one thing he'd come to accept over the years, it had to be that he wasn't exactly a very good friend. To _anyone_, but especially to Cuddy herself, he hadn't been kind. Spending most of his time taunting her about the whole baby business, House had understood that he'd been particularly unsupportive in this.

And so yes, if she'd had to rely on him to help… then he'd believed that it truly _did_ reflect on her choices.

Shaking her head in short, quick movements, Cuddy had finished, "I kept thinking… if that woman comes in here and says Joy is hers… there's nothing I can do. I'm all alone in this. I…" She'd paused, trying to find the words she wanted. Exhaling loudly, she'd continued, "I don't have a husband; Joy doesn't have a father. I can produce _documents_, but I know that those things can be faked, and I don't…" Glancing down at the unpolished curves of her fingernails illuminated by the first night rays of the moon, Cuddy had said, "I don't have anything else to show. Don't have any other proof."

His gut reaction had been to mention that that wasn't true, that if he'd had to, he would have made sure the diaper filler stayed where she belonged. But immediately, House had realized that saying that was almost akin to saying, "We're in this together." And frankly, they weren't, because he didn't care about the kid, even if she'd managed to weasel her way into his life, he'd told himself.

So he'd offered instead, "Could draw stretch marks on your stomach. That could work."

A second's worth of a laugh escaping her, the smile flashing on her features had failed to reach her eyes, he'd noted at the time. But the joke had seemed to lighten her mood anyway, even if it hadn't completely erased what had happened earlier in the day. The tears and sniffles had abated – thankfully. As much as he didn't care about the condition of his car, somehow the idea of Cuddy snot in the interior hadn't been an appealing one.

And more importantly, despite the fact that she had no longer spoke, he'd been able to tell that she was… doing okay. His gaze every so often catching her blue eyes sliding over to the rearview mirror, he'd watched her make sure that Joy was still there. The sight of her daughter sleeping more likely more reassuring than anything he could have said, House had smartly kept his mouth shut.

The two adults not saying anything else to one another until hours later when he'd pulled up to her house, Cuddy had been the one to break the silence. Looking over at him with warm eyes, she'd asked, "Do you want to come in?"

"I want to go home and get drunk. This baby drama has cut into my buzz. You know how it is" had been his curt response.

But seemingly not interested in taking no for an answer, she'd offered, "I have beer in the fridge… might have some bourbon."

His eyes had narrowed on her. "Are you actually trying to _lure _me into your home with booze?"

"Yes."

"That's interesting," he'd said snidely. "Because I'd have thought you'd try to convince me that trashing my liver for the fun of it isn't very smart. But then," he'd continued, his mind realizing the other scenario possible. "Guess you could be trying to kill me. Not a very nice way to thank someone for driving Miss Daisy, but –"

"If you're worried about your liver," she'd offered awkwardly. "There are… other things we could do." A small amount of heat radiating from her gaze, it had been impossible _not_ to know what she'd wanted.

"That is, actually, the worst proposition for sex I've ever heard, which is saying a lot cause I've seen Wilson pick up hookers" he'd told her earnestly. "And if we're ranking potentially stupid things to do tonight, _that_ takes number one."

"Why?" Her voice had sounded insistent, challenging.

"Oh, I'm sorry. No, you're right," he'd replied sarcastically. "Emotional situation, tears, loneliness – way better than candles and rose pedals. Sure, I'd be taking advantage of you, but who can resist sex when you've set a mood like that?"

She'd shaken her head. "You wouldn't be taking advantage of me, House." One of her small hands coming to rest on his knee, Cuddy had insisted, "Right now… I am… _very_ glad to have you in my life. Because if you hadn't shown up today –"

"I didn't _do_ anything," House had pointed out.

"But you would have… and that means everything to me." Squeezing his kneecap, she'd asked, "Please? I don't want to let you go just yet."

The come on just a little too b-list romantic comedy for his taste, it had been almost enough for him to shove her hand away and refuse. Because as tempting as the offer was, House hadn't been sure that it was the right thing to do.

Or rather, he hadn't _cared_ if it were the right thing to do; he wasn't Wilson, after all. But at the time, he'd worried that if he said yes and went inside, she would eventually turn around and be angry. And any strides he'd made since Joy's birth to keep himself involved in Cuddy's life would be for naught.

"Please," she'd repeated.

His "no" begging to escape the back of his throat, it had been almost shocking to House _himself_ that he should discover his head nodding in acceptance. Never understanding quite sure why he'd agreed, he'd only been able to figure out one thing.

As Cuddy had waited for an answer, her light eyes trained on him, she'd seemed so… different. Quieter. A lost look radiating from her gray blue irises, House had only understood that he hadn't liked it, that he'd been too afraid to let go, unsure of what might happen if he did.

**IX. Fifteen Months Old**

The pregnancy test sat unused on the back of her toilet for two weeks. Cuddy hadn't planned on going that long without knowing the truth; indeed, regardless of how busy she was, her mind refused to let her think of anything else. Every time she wanted a cup of coffee, her brain instinctively began to rattle off the statistics she didn't even remember reading about caffeine and miscarriage. Two hundred milligrams consumed or more and her already increased-due-to-age risk would leap to making her twice as likely to miscarry as the women who didn't consume any caffeine. And that alone would have her avoiding the Starbucks and coffee carts all around her.

She purposely took a five-minute detour in her stroll from the parking garage to her office to avoid the smokers. She didn't treat patients with Chicken Pox – despite knowing that her potentially unborn child was safe from infection.

No OTCs, no alcohol, no feta on her salad, or homemade apple cider that they sold at the store – there was no question in her mind that House _knew_ what was going on. Too many clues to ignore, Cuddy could only decide that he hadn't said anything, because a pregnancy would affect _him_ as well. His attitude seemingly one of "If I ignore it, it will go away," he was almost convincing enough to have _her_ believe that she wasn't pregnant.

But nausea hitting her at odd intervals, her period non-existent, she couldn't quite believe it, and she understood she needed to take the pregnancy test before she _really_ had her heart set on being pregnant.

As though that hadn't happened already, Cuddy lamented.

But between Joy getting the croup and work getting its normal influx of winter-related patients, she really hadn't had the time to pee on a stick and wait for the results. Each minute of her day booked and bleeding into the next, unless she'd wanted to stop doing her job, as an administrator _or_ a mother, she'd have to wait for an opening.

Which happened, finally, in January. Joy was feeling better, although nights were still filled with coughs and tears. And as a result, or maybe this was just proof that she was fifteen months old, there were more tantrums during the day. This morning's meltdown so bad that Joy had coughed hard enough to gag and throw up, Cuddy didn't have much of a choice but to take the day off. Because even if she could convince the hospital day care or another babysitter to take her, Cuddy understood that it would just take that much longer for the little girl to get well if she cried and screamed all day long.

Morning and lunch passing quickly, they were approaching naptime. And although Cuddy had planned on using that time to take the pregnancy test, her daughter clearly had _other _plans.

She whined at the word when Cuddy told her, "Naptime," outright cried when she saw the crib, and screamed, "Mama," until she threw up after being left in her room alone. The gagging noises heard through the baby alarm, Cuddy had no choice but to put the pregnancy test aside and go to her. Because even if she could agree with her own mother that she should let Joy cry it out on her own, Cuddy knew that her daughter was sick. And allowances had to be made.

Which meant instead of sleeping in her crib, Joy spent naptime in the bathroom with Cuddy. Of course, she wasn't going to take the pregnancy test in front of her daughter, lest she begin to believe that peeing on a plastic stick was a normal part of going to the bathroom. Besides, Cuddy was still hoping to get a nap out of her, the little girl definitely in need of sleep.

She quickly changed Joy's clothes; the opportunity for a nap closing, Cuddy knew that, if she didn't get her down to sleep now, it would be too late. And although she wasn't opposed to screwing up the very carefully constructed schedule they both lived on, having to entertain her toddler at four am didn't sound like fun.

The mother blindly grabbed a few books on her way out, Joy, with her favorite blanket trailing behind her, quietly toddling along side.

Once in the bathroom, Cuddy turned on the shower so that it was hot enough to easily scald. The water instantly created a lot of steam. The cold January weather helping things along, the bathroom air was soon warm and moist – just what Joy needed for the croup.

Sitting down on the bathroom rug, her back flush against the wall, Cuddy pulled her daughter toward her. It took them both a minute to get settled, the little girl finally laying her head down on the tops of her mother's thighs. Very blonde hair fanning out on Cuddy's dark pants, it was almost amazing, she thought, that Joy should be so compliant with reading now. Because up until even a month ago, Joy had still been reluctant to read books with her. And really, if there was one good thing that had come from the fifteen month old being sick, it was that she was more willing to sit still.

Before, reading books was about as useful as reading the Nuremberg Code to House. Joy had _hated_ books overall, and Cuddy didn't really understand why. The little girl loved to be held and kept close; as much as she was beginning to discover the world around her, she was still most happy when Cuddy was right there with her. Why Joy should hate reading, then, was a mystery to her. The only thing she could figure was that, perhaps, Joy thought there were better things to do with her time.

But thanks to the croup, the little girl hadn't had enough energy to run around and play. And because of that, she'd learned to appreciate curling up in Mommy's lap for a story.

Which wasn't to say the toddler kept still. Because she _didn't_, not by any means. Even when she was most intrigued by the story being read, she still fidgeted. She would suck her thumb or burrow under her blanket. But as of late, her favorite activity was to explore her own body or Cuddy's. Somehow amazed at learning that they were, in fact, two separate beings, Joy seemed preoccupied with delineating what was _hers_ and how the two differed from one another.

The little girl nearly constantly curious about it, Cuddy had tried to satiate Joy's appetite for anatomy by buying every book she could find on the human body for children. Although, truthfully, she didn't really _want_ to do that; unsure of how she felt about Joy potentially becoming a doctor – or more to the point, unsure of whether Cuddy _herself_ could avoid pushing her down that avenue, she'd hesitated at first to buy those books.

But then, realizing it would be just as wrong to _withhold_ that knowledge from her daughter, she relented.

Not that it made any difference it would seem. Because when it came to paying attention to Cuddy's stirring reading of _Hand, Hand, Fingers, Thumb_ versus groping and playing with whatever body part she could grab, Joy preferred the latter.

As if to prove the point, the toddler began to tug at the hem of Cuddy's sweater. Little hands suddenly pressing against her stomach, it _shouldn't_ have meant something. It should _not_ have had an effect on her, she thought.

But it did.

Because even though Cuddy knew it was impossible for a toddler to know if her mommy was pregnant or not, somehow it felt like a… _sign_ anyway. And with tiny fingers lightly poking around her belly button, she couldn't help but imagine two children, one inside, the other out, separated only by a small barrier of skin.

They'd be very different at this point, one fifteen months, the other only seven weeks in utero. One almost too big for her crib, the other was the size of a blueberry and had a tail. Which frankly would have been all the proof she'd needed to believe that the child potentially inside of her was the spawn of Satan (as if she needed proof of that), if she hadn't been aware of how fetal development worked.

But even putting the _Rosemary's Baby _fantasies and jokes aside, Cuddy wondered how this would work. How would she explain to Joy that she hadn't come from her womb? How would she explain to this other child that he or she had been created with a man Mommy spent most of her time trying _not_ to kill?

And even if she _could_ come up with explanations that satisfied both of them, she wondered if she could do it. Could she really handle two children two and under? Truthfully, Cuddy _already_ felt guilty about not being able to spend every waking moment with the one, and somehow…

She didn't think she could handle having to split what time she had away from work in half.

And, as Joy continued to explore, Cuddy wondered if having two children was really what she wanted. She'd never actually thought past one, the road to get that far too foggy to look beyond the immediate end in sight. Really, she'd only considered the one, and the one she had was absolutely perfect, and what were the chances of perfection being repeated – especially when that baby had drawn the short straw when it came to genetics.

Her mind churning at the sheer volume of questions, Cuddy could feel herself becoming nauseous. Bile practically pooling in the back of her throat, she didn't know if this was just nervousness or something more telling. Setting the book aside, she glanced over at the toilet and wondered if she'd have to shove Joy to the side to make it in time.

The grip on her purple sweater suddenly becoming insistent, the little girl said loudly, "Mama!" Loud enough to echo in the small room, the word immediately pulled Cuddy from her thoughts.

Looking down she couldn't help but immediately smile at the halo of blonde curls on her lap and dark eyes trained seriously on her stomach. "Mama," Joy repeated, hooking Cuddy's belly button with the slick thumb her daughter had been sucking.

In all honesty, Cuddy didn't really believe anymore that Joy would grow up to be a doctor. As much as this might have been proof that the toddler was, in fact, a _toddler_, the little girl, it seemed, was less interested in the names of the body parts, less interested in what those parts did. Her focus almost always on the way things felt, looked, or were shaped, Joy never seemed happier to know what the part she was touching was called.

Because even though Cuddy said, "That's Mommy's bellybutton, sweetheart," Joy didn't care. Yes, she was only fifteen months old, her attention span and level of understanding only so big, _but_ Cuddy could tell when the words she was saying had _no_ effect on her child.

So she said, "You have one too."

"No." Whether Joy said that because she was unconvinced or because she was simply saying one of the six words she knew at this point, Cuddy didn't know.

"Yes, you do," she told her sweetly. "Mommy will show you."

But she'd no sooner than curled her fingers around the bottom of Joy's shirt when the little girl screamed, "Noooo." Pushing at Cuddy's hands, Joy whined loudly.

Letting go, Cuddy asked knowingly, "Are you cranky because you haven't taken a nap?"

The answer she got was a nonsensical, shrill objection to the question. The taciturn toddler tenaciously turning onto her side, she buried her face into Cuddy's stomach.

Silence, save for the sound of the running shower, fell over them then. Cautiously waiting to see if there were more to the tantrum, Cuddy was pleased at how Joy quickly settled down. And as soon as her daughter began sucking her thumb calmly, Cuddy began to read once more.

A hand carefully running through Joy's hair, it was a tricky business, trying to untangle the snarls that her curls created. Cuddy had to be careful; if there were one thing to put Joy in a foul mood, it was having her hair brushed in any way, shape, or form. The sight of a comb enough to make her cry, she had to be tricked (or bribed). So far this trick seemed to be working, Joy's warm body relaxing into her mother's.

And, for a brief moment, as she read the words to a book she'd read five times this week, easily, Cuddy couldn't help but think that maybe two children wouldn't be so bad. Her sweet daughter listening quietly in her lap, the moment was _so_ enticingly sweet. Cuddy's hand stilling in a thicket of blonde curls, she wondered how she could have ever doubted that two would be _more_ than okay.

It would be… _perfect_.

But at that moment, it seemed that her own body had an incredibly different idea in mind. The sudden cramping, the subtle trickle of what had to be blood from inside of her – she didn't need her medical degree to know exactly what that added up to. Her period, a miscarriage, the exact cause was unknown and unimportant. Because it all amounted to the same thing.

She wasn't pregnant.

And in her heart, it didn't matter whether she'd actually been pregnant before this moment. She wasn't pregnant _now_, and despite her hesitation to accept that she might have been before, Cuddy had somehow come to believe it anyway; she'd _thought_ she was pregnant. What the truth might actually be, she didn't know, and she didn't care.

A potential family member gone before he or she had even had a chance to truly exist, Cuddy wondered how she'd ever forgotten the sting of _this_.

How had she ever forgotten how much _not_ being pregnant hurt?

The question a punishing one, it was also one immediately answered. The key coming in the form of the little girl in her lap letting out a quiet cry in her sleep. Tearfully looking down, Cuddy understood:

It was _Joy_.

Having her daughter had made her oblivious to the pain she'd been in before. Only her child had made her forget just horrible it could all be. And, brushing a strand of blonde hair away from Joy's face, Cuddy couldn't help but pray she could do it again.

**X. Sixteen Years Old**

He'd been in a foul mood all week, the only constant thought in his mind: _this_ is why you don't have children. Or rather, the thought should have been: _this_ is why you don't let your _friends_ have children.

Because even though House hadn't set out to… _care_ about Joy, that didn't matter anymore. Sixteen years of thinking that she was little more than a pain in the ass still amounted to sixteen years of knowing someone. And _apparently_, that was more than enough time for him to get used to her being around, enough time for him to be _blinded_ by her lies when it had become necessary to see clearly.

She'd told Cuddy that she was going to visit an "art camp," whatever the hell that was, with a friend. Three days later, when they'd come back, Joy hadn't been feeling well, and nobody – not even House _himself_ – had thought anything of it. Really, why would he have? Irritability and nausea were symptomatic of millions of things, including being a PMSing or hung over sixteen year old.

But they'd been wrong not to suspect anything; _he'd_ been wrong. Because two days after she'd come home, Cuddy had had to take Joy to the hospital. Rash, stiff neck, photophobia – those things had an easy explanation, as Cuddy had been, no doubt, aware.

And he'd taken the case right then and there, _not_ because bacterial meningitis was a particularly interesting diagnosis, but out of _guilt_. Out of _not_ having seen her symptoms for what they really were.

His interest in treating Joy strictly personal, it should not have surprised him that he hadn't been able to see things clearly since then. It should not have been shocking for him that he hadn't been able to diagnose her successfully until now. As he headed towards her room, House couldn't help but see all of the mistakes he'd made along the way.

He'd believed the lie, almost at face value, that Joy had gone to art camp. He'd ordered his team to search her bedroom, but he hadn't, _they_ hadn't, paid much attention to what they might find. Convinced already that it was meningitis, they'd all gotten lazy with the diagnosis.

One on one with Joy, he'd been _nice_ – well, nice enough about the whole thing. He'd done the lumbar puncture himself, only calling her a baby _once_ when she'd started to cry. And even that act of callousness had had its roots in concern for her staying still.

So of course, the cerebrospinal fluid hadn't been consistent with bacterial meningitis. Of _course_, House had had to look for other explanations.

Which meant wasting another two days of time until thirty minutes ago when he'd personally glanced through the things brought back from Joy's room. There hadn't been anything there, so he'd moved onto plan B – the clothes she'd been admitted in.

And that was where the diagnosis had lie. The clues so small that nobody else had noticed, the answer had come to him bit by bit. A bus ticket to Chicago dated the time she'd supposedly been in Connecticut for art camp in her jean's pocket. A hospital business card with a phone number written in Joy's scrawl on the back. The answer within reach, House had called the number.

And he'd known within two minutes of talking to the mother of a meningitis-infected teenager what was wrong. The answer was so _obvious_, even if Joy's reasons weren't. The pieces of the puzzle neatly falling into place, now all he had to do was accuse Joy.

Not that that would be hard, he thought grimly, as he rounded on her hospital room. House never felt incredibly shy about sharing his annoyance, and, right about now, he was feeling even more open than usual; ready to give _her_ as much pain as she had caused the entire week, he only needed to decide now _how_.

Should he pretend to diagnose her with an incurable disease that would kill her? Go for something a little less deadly and _way_ more embarrassing?

He decided on neither as he pushed open the doors to her hospital room. Because, given that Cuddy hadn't left this room in two days, she too would hear what he had to say. And stupidly exhausted with sleep and blinded by her _love_ for Joy, she would probably believe that her daughter was dying, should he mention it in front of her. Doing that to her an unacceptable price to pay, even for _him_, House had to improvise.

Which was _really_ easy when the person you wanted to torment had both photophobia _and_ hyperacusis-related phonophobia. Because even though _both_ of those conditions were entirely the product of a nasty case of conversion disorder, House _knew_, it felt real enough. And using both of those things against her, it would _easy_ to give Joy a taste of the pain she'd been giving everyone else the past week.

At the moment, she was in the hospital bed, her eyes screwed shut tightly, despite the fact that the lights in the room were off and the shades drawn. Her head was resting in _Mommy's_ lap, one of Cuddy's hands playing with her hair. The older woman hunched over, she was whispering something he couldn't hear into Joy's ears. Only the gentle murmur of her voice making its way over to him, House had no doubt she was saying something along the lines of, "It's not your fault" or "It's okay."

But _none_ of that was true.

The scene straight out of _Little Women_ or some other garbage Joy had read over the years agitating him even further, it was with relish that House destroyed the moment.

Noisily, he slapped the lights on. The sudden brightness enough to make Joy whimper, Cuddy gave him a pointed glare. "House," she hissed.

"What?" he asked loudly, moving toward the windows. "Thought the little ray of sunshine might like some sunshine," House explained, sarcasm creeping into his voice. One of his hands shoving a shade up as raucously as he could, House couldn't help but frown. The mini blinds not nearly as noisy as he would have liked, when he moved to the next set, he just yanked as hard as he could.

The aluminum shades crashed stridently onto the floor. The noise shrill and enough to almost make _him_ wince, it was not surprising that Joy let out a yelp, muffled by the sound of her mother's skirt.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said with a smirk on his face. "Was that too loud for you?"

Stalking towards the side of her bed, House ignored Cuddy when she said, louder than Joy probably wanted, "What the _hell_ is wrong with you?"

His gaze focused on teenager, he explained, "Nothing. This is just how I get when I lie to everyone and disappear to Chicago for two days, and –"

"You've been _here_ for months, House," Cuddy pointed out, her brow furrowing in confusion.

But he ignored her, finishing his thought, "Meet a _twenty year old_ boy."

By that point, Cuddy had started to move, but even amongst the shifting on the bed, he could see Joy react. Her muscles tensing slightly, back stiffening nervously, she knew that he knew. His eyes trained on her, he ignored the way Cuddy angrily snapped, "Unless you met with the Marquis de Sade, I have _no_ idea what _this_ has to do with anything."

"No?" Still focused on Joy, House _waited_ for her to say something, for her to admit that she'd been lying to him – no, _them_, this entire time.

But she stayed silent.

And frankly, he thought he shouldn't have been surprised by that. After all, _he'd_ been the one to coin the phrase, "Everybody lies," and he'd done it with good reason; everyone did lie, even when it didn't necessarily benefit them to do so. They denied and fudged the truth and did whatever it took to keep their secrets secret, and Joy doing the same should not have been surprising.

But it was.

It truly was, because in the sixteen years he'd had to deal with her, Joy had never learned to lie. Well, to _him_, anyway, because she quickly realized it was pointless. When she was young, her fidgeting gave it away, and even if he was complicit in her getting away with the lie, House had no problem pointing out that he _knew_ she was lying.

Even as she grew older and got better, he knew all her tells. He knew the way her voice would get just slightly more high-pitched than normal and the way the bottoms of her ears would flush a light pink. He knew when she gave times that were too specific to be believable and when she became flustered about naming the people she'd been with.

And, again, he had no problem with her getting away with the lie. What did he care if she lied to Cuddy about going to see a rated R movie when she was twelve?

But now House realized that he'd been wrong… about so many things. Because _now_, she had lied to _him_, and it hadn't been over something small. She'd _lied_, and it could have cost her her life, and _he'd_ been too confident in his ability to read her to realize it. And he wasn't sure what pissed him off more, truthfully.

But in this moment, it didn't matter. His anger getting the best of him, he didn't _care_ what was fueling him. His only concern giving her as much pain as she had recently caused, revenge was on his mind, the need to _hurt_ her more consuming than the fact that he'd screwed up.

Joy still silent, House said, "Guess she doesn't know what I'm talking about either."

"Of course she doesn't," Cuddy snapped, turning the lights off once more. "How is _anyone_ supposed to understand your nonsense?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. She just seems like the type to understand what it's like to run off for a few days with a friend and –"

Rounding on him, Cuddy demanded, "Did you take something?"

"What?" His gaze momentarily turning away from Joy, he sneered. "_No_."

"No Vicodin or _crack_, perhaps?"

He ignored the question as he turned back to Joy. Her tiny body shaking under the sheets, she was obviously affected by the fight. But like an idiot, she wasn't going to say anything. And realizing that, House decided he'd had enough. "_No_," he repeated annoyed. "But since I'm the only one who has _any_ idea what's going on, guess it's time for me to explain."

Leaning over, House grabbed Joy by the wrist. Her skin warm to the touch from having the limb tucked under her blankets, the contrast to his cool grip was one to make her gasp. Her dark eyes finally opening, if only in a squint, she looked… scared. "Dr. House," she said tentatively.

"Kid's gonna be fine," House said loudly, suddenly reaching towards her IV line. He ignored the tape running along her arm, didn't bother with it. The motion so smooth she didn't have time to pull away, he quickly yanked the IV out.

Blood immediately began running along the contours of her arm. The startlingly red rivulet infiltrating each shallow groove of her lightly tanned skin, it was enough to have Cuddy running the rest of the distance to Joy.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she shouted over Joy's cries. Her gaze alternating between the blood and his face, she looked as though she couldn't decide whether to kill him now or wait.

Ignoring the display of maternal anger, House defended, "Not like she needs the antibiotics."

As Cuddy ransacked a drawer for gauze, she argued, "You don't know that. It's obvious you have _no idea_ what she has, and you're taking your frustration out on her." The sound of syringes and plastic being shifted around punctuating the moment, Cuddy said, "I _can't _believe you did that. She could have –"

"What she _has_ is conversion disorder," he retorted immediately, leaning on his cane, his gaze intent on Joy. Pretending to act surprised by this fact, he said, "Apparently swindling Mommy for money to travel halfway across the country with her best friend, meeting the _dreamiest_ boy ever, watching him get sick, and then having to abandon him at a hospital, come home, and pretend like nothing happened is just too much for a little girl to handle. Who could have guessed?"

Since she was already crying, it was hard to tell whether or not his words were having an effect on Joy. But they clearly were having one on Cuddy, who was obviously refusing to believe what he was saying. "You are insane. Joy would _never_ –"

"Steal? Lie? Do something _stupid_ like run away so that, if something happened to her, you'd never know?" With a cock of his head, House admitted sarcastically, "Yeah, she'd _never _be that big of an idiot. I mean white slavery _does_ sound so enticing in the brochures, but -"

"You have lost your mind, House," Cuddy snarled.

"Funny, cause I have the proof –"

"Just stop it, all right?" Joy finally cried out loudly. Nearly begging, she sobbed, "Just stop" before her words dovetailed into little more than a series of apologies. "I'm sorry" murmured over and over, it was then, much to his irritation, that Cuddy _finally_ believed. His word suddenly not good enough on its own, it was only because Joy was admitting it that Cuddy could accept it.

And it was _that_ betrayal, coupled with the one that had lasted all week, that had him say coldly, "See, Cuddy, this is the problem with raising hand-me-downs. Scrape the bottom of the barrel for offspring, and all you get is the chance to parent crack babies and sludge. Next time, do us both a favor and get a goldfish. It's _smarter_ and easier to flush down the toilet."

His words hit home. And it was not surprising when she turned to him, her blue eyes icy, ordered, "Get out. _Now_."

For the first time in a very long time, he listened to her. Because, if House had learned one thing this past week, it was that he'd gotten too close; he'd come to care for them both, maybe even… love them.

And they had _hurt _him return.

Determined never to make that mistake again, House turned and left, Joy's cries and Cuddy's words comfort burning his ears as he went.

_End Part Two_


	3. Chapter 3

_In the back of her mind, Cuddy knew that, by now, House was getting anxious. He'd been itching for her approval before Joy had even been born, and although she'd agreed to go back to work, she hadn't done that yet. And_ that, _no doubt was upsetting to someone as big a baby as House. _

_But, of course, leaving right now was hard, if not impossible, to do. Her maternity staff had_ just _wheeled Joy into the room, and Cuddy was too besotted to go back to work. The unbelievably small child clean, the vernix having been gently washed from her body, Joy was wrapped in a white, pink, and blue blanket. A matching pink knit hat on her head, it covered the brownish hair dusting the soft curves of her skull. _

_There were still traces of eye ointment all around her eyelids, and were Cuddy to look beneath the blanket, she'd see where they'd pricked Joy on the foot for blood. Those two things the only proof that she'd had_ any _sort of medical intervention, the events of the last hour seemed like nothing more than a distant memory. _

_Especially considering that the little girl who had been so hesitant to cry now seemed more than eager to do it. She'd been quiet when they'd washed her, only slightly fussy when they'd begun to clean around the umbilical area. But the minute she'd received vitamin K, she'd proved her lungs had been_ plenty _developed to use. _

_Even now, the tiny infant – no, Cuddy thought; this was_ her _daughter, and she should start thinking of her as such. So she mentally corrected herself: even now, her _daughter_ was teetering on the brink of bursting into loud sobs. Little cries escaping her diminutive mouth, she squirmed in the hospital-issue bassinet. _

_The rudimentary cribs of plastic and stainless steel a familiar sight to Cuddy, she wondered how many times she'd passed them in her job. Standing over her little baby now, she wondered how many times she'd come into the maternity ward craving a child of her own. _

_Too many to count, she realized. That feeling one that had radiated from within her body, it was one that had, for_ years, _suffocated any whispers of happiness. All thoughts inside her head about how cliché a forty-something, single woman wanting a baby was extinguished by this desperate yearning, she'd learned to live with it._

_And when the IVF had failed – or she had failed to continue with it, anyway, that feeling was one she'd assumed would be a part of her life until she died. The loneliness almost a companion in her life, it was something she was all too eager to part with._

_It was something, Cuddy realized happily, that she would_ _never feel again._

_Because hanging on the side of the impersonal bassinet was the plaque of information she'd already memorized; included were height, weight, sex, but it was the name that mattered the most. _

_It was seeing_ _Cuddy on there in black ink that reaffirmed what she already knew: this was her child. _

_That fact one Joy already seemed to know, the little girl already seemed to react to her mother's touch. In an attempt to soothe, Cuddy had begun to rub circles on the infant's stomach. The pads of her fingers moving around in a distinct pattern, she could tell it was working. The noises the baby was making were beginning to change from agitated to something slightly more assured; hungry she couldn't be completely silent. _

_Which was _fine _with Cuddy. Joy's cries too new to be resented even in the slightest, the sound was one she couldn't help but smile at. _

"_You look deranged." _

_Rolling her eyes, Cuddy turned her head back toward the maternity ward's entrance. Standing in the doorway was House. Irritation in his eyes and on every other feature she could see, it wasn't hard to guess his mood right now. Nor was it hard to realize that she would have to tread this conversation carefully, because it could quickly turn into a noisy fight that would upset all of the newborns. _

"_I'm not deranged," she explained calmly. "I'm happy. There's a difference." _

_As he walked towards her, he let out a grunt, a sound muffled by the back of his throat that said, "I don't believe you."_

_Not that she was in any mood to convince. _

_Her attention already returning to Joy, Cuddy didn't look at him again until he reminded her, "You were supposed to be saying_ goodbye."

_One of her palms lightly caressing her daughter's face, Cuddy told him, "Only you would find that an easy thing to do." _

"_Right," he said sarcastically, nodding his head. "It must be unbelievably difficult for you to step away from the thing that craps and cries every two hours in order to –" _

"_She's a baby, not a thing, and considering I've kept you employed for a decade, I wouldn't complain about my attachment to people whose main activities are pooping and whining." Her voice was icy, a smirk spreading across her face as she looked at him. _

_The scowl not unexpected, House pointed out, "Yeah, well, at least I've mastered complex tasks like supporting my own head." _

_She smiled. "Considering the size of your head, that_ is _an accomplishment."_

_He had no response to that, at least not one he planned on sharing with her anyway. His mouth might have been closed, but, his jaw twitching at odd intervals, Cuddy had no doubt that he had plenty to say on the matter. Her gaze automatically shifting back toward Joy, she couldn't help but wonder if he would ever be okay with this. _

_So she asked, "Is this how it's going to be for the rest of our lives, House? You resenting me for trying to be happy and punishing me by pointing out every way I'd fail as a mother?" _

"_Well, I'd contemplated getting the twit a pair of booties," he said sardonically. "But –" _

_Her attention and palms off of the baby now, Cuddy turned to House. One of her hands resting insistently on his forearm, she told him firmly, "Stop it. You're not going to get me to change my mind. Ever. So you might as well just be happy for me." _

_His gaze momentarily cast down to her touch. The look in his eyes one she couldn't quite understand, it was with caution that she waited for his response. Because, while she wasn't afraid he would hurt her physically, Cuddy wasn't exactly sure what she could expect from him. Something devastatingly harmful or sweet equally was likely, so she had no idea how to prepare herself. _

_But really, she didn't need to, because all he said was, "Are you finally done?" His head cocked in explanation to Joy. _

_Cuddy sighed. As much as she wanted to tell him no, she knew she couldn't. Work calling to her in a way she couldn't ignore, she had no choice but to do what he wanted. Her lips turning into a slight frown, she said, "Yeah. Lets go." _

_Of course, House had other ideas. Leaning down toward the plastic and steel bassinet, he suddenly spoke quietly, almost apologetically. "Sorry, kid." His voice slowly becoming infused with sarcastic tones, he explained, "Mommy's _other _baby needs her now." _

_He pulled back then; standing straight up once more, he caught sight of her raised eyebrow and defended himself, "I meant the _hospital, _Angelina Jolie, not me." _

"_Okay," she said unconvinced, as they turned to leave the maternity ward. _

_Her steps slower than normal to accommodate him, she was close enough to hear him mutter, "Get one kid, think you have to mother everybody else." _

_The comment was clearly made to get a reaction from her. _

_But instead, Cuddy chose to ignore it. Because he was looking for a fight, looking for a reason to point out just how bad a decision adopting Joy was. So she stayed silent; if she didn't play the game, she reasoned, he would eventually get bored and move onto something else. _

_Then again, she thought almost immediately, she had no idea how long it would take for him to become bored. And considering he_ still _enjoyed tormenting her years after he'd started, somehow she thought that he could keep this going until Joy was well into adulthood. The possible future one she didn't want for her child, Cuddy realized this needed to stop. _

_But how? _

_Her mind turning as quickly as the elevator moved, she only had one idea: a bet. _

_It wasn't the most inventive plan. Truthfully it wasn't a very good one either. But if she could give him something else to focus on, give him a reason to look at Joy as something other than the person who ruined everything, it would be worth it._

_As the elevator dropped lower, she turned to him and asked, "Think her eyes will change colors?" _

_He shot her a look that was an interesting mix of irritation and confusion. "I don't know._ _Does_ evil _ever change?" he asked, pretending to be philosophical. _

_Swallowing the "apparently not" she was dying to say, Cuddy tried to remain calm. Tersely she said, "She's a little girl, not evil, and I thought you might be opportunistic enough to realize there are any number of things we could bet –"_

"_I_ did_," House told her arrogantly. "That's why Kutner and I are taking bets on how long it'll take you to change your mind." _

_His completely insensitive admission made her heart sink, made her want to hit him and cry all at the same time. _

_After everything that had happened, after every painful and lengthy step she had taken to become a mother, House still didn't see it. He didn't see that having Joy, even in this short period of time, had made her happier than she had_ ever _been. He didn't see that betting on it – as though it were some sort of fad she'd get over by month's end – hurt. And Cuddy realized that, even if he_ did _understand what he was doing, he clearly didn't care, because…_

_She wasn't a mother in his eyes. _

_Menotropin injections, egg retrieval, and sperm donors; IVF and miscarriages; interviews and home inspections that had unearthed every mistake, every issue, and nearly every sexual experience she'd ever_ had_ for the sole sake of being_ judged _– none of it was enough for him. He'd seen her with Joy, but House hadn't understood._

_So Cuddy would make it clear. _

_Angling her body so that she could look directly at him, she told him firmly, "Joy is my daughter. I'm not going to change my mind. I will never change my mind." Arms folded across her chest, she said, "_Nothing_ is going to change that –" _

"Everything _is going to change," he interrupted, not interested, apparently, in the rest of what she had to say. "Everything, Cuddy." _

_At that moment, the elevator binged poignantly. The doors sliding open, Cuddy was eager to escape the metal confines. Hand on the doorframe, she told him gravely, honestly, "I hope so." _

_Turning she started to walk away from him. The sound of his uneven steps behind her filling her ears, it was not enough of a distraction to stop her from thinking: _

_This day wasn't going to get any easier_.

**XI. Nine Years Old**

Wearing a set of pink and purple polka dot flannel pajamas, Joy sat on the edge of the bed. Bobbing up and down, she fidgeted tiredly on top of the mattress. She'd been that way since Cuddy could remember – unable to concentrate or sit still when she was exhausted.

And under any other circumstances Cuddy had learned to adjust to that. Even when it meant, on stormy nights, getting an elbow in the side or a stray hand accidentally hitting her when her frightened daughter curled up in bed with her, Cuddy had accepted it. But right now, with her fingers knuckle deep in blonde curls, she couldn't help but find herself becoming irritated.

"Joy, if you don't sit still, the braids won't be straight." Not that it mattered, Cuddy supposed; she was doing her daughter's hair now, right before bedtime, on the nine year old's request. And after a night of all the tossing and turning Joy did, the two side braids Cuddy was putting in would be gone, their elastic confines easily slipping over the strands, by morning.

Of course, knowing this, Joy didn't listen. Fidgeting some more, she whined, "Why can't we celebrate Christmas?"

The question was not a new one. Having been asked it every December since Joy had been five, Cuddy had long since gotten used to it. "Because we're Jewish," she replied tiredly, offering the same explanation she'd always given. "And stop moving."

Bouncing up and down some more and somewhere between tears and a tantrum, Joy said in a high-pitched voice, "But I want Santa to bring me presents! Santa's not _not_ Jewish! Why can't he come?"

"Sweetheart, Santa celebrates Christmas. We don't," Cuddy tried to explain as gently as possible. As she finished putting in the last bit of the braid, she added, "Besides, you know that Santa Claus isn't real."

Her blonde locks slipping through Cuddy's fingers, Joy spun around angrily. "Yes, he is," she argued, hands balling into fists. "He just doesn't come here cause he knows _you_ don't believe in him."

Nodding her head slowly, Cuddy conceded, "You might be right about that. But," she added more cheerily. "Right now, it's time for bed."

Not unlike a puffer fish, her daughter quickly deflated. Her outrage quickly fleeing (not that it ever lasted), Joy said seriously, as she rubbed her eyes, "Okay... But, Mommy, I really think we should do the Christmas thing."

She sounded so _adult_ in that moment that Cuddy had to hide her smile in the palm of her hand.

Scrambling towards the head of the bed, Joy grabbed her stuffed dog, named Ogilvy, off of the floor. The battered tan and cream corgi the only stuffed animal the blonde refused to go without, it had been a gift from House.

Well, _gift_ wasn't the right word; Joy liked to believe that that was what it was, but it certainly _wasn't_ a present. Confronting House about it, Cuddy had learned that he'd stolen it from a patient, stolen it in a bizarre attempt to make the child tell the truth about what had happened. Not that that ever happened, the little kid dying before he'd ever had a chance to explain what he'd done wrong. And when that had happened, House had been left with the stuffed animal. The dog a reminder of what had happened, he'd tossed it in the trashcan… where Joy found and retrieved it.

Now, after many, many, _many_ trips in the washing machine, Ogilvy was her favorite thing in the world. The little girl refused to go anywhere without it, just as she refused to believe that it was anything other than a present from House. And watching her daughter burrow under the blankets with stuffed dog tucked under her armpit, Cuddy didn't have the heart to tell her the truth.

"_Mommy_," Joy whined, "You're not listening to me."

Moving to tuck her daughter in, Cuddy replied, "Yes, I am. You want to celebrate Christmas."

"Uh huh. Because you get presents on –_"_

Confused, Cuddy pointed out, "You get presents when it's Hanukkah."

"But not all on the same day," she complained. And just as Cuddy was about to ask why it made any difference, Joy added, "Besides, there's no good Hanukkah music. Maybe Dr. House knows some; I could ask him… maybe we could _write_ a song together!"

Her daughter beginning to tiredly ramble on, Cuddy didn't have the heart to tell her that House would probably rather skin himself alive than write Hanukkah songs. So she said knowingly, "You must be very tired, Joy." The blonde nodded her head slowly in agreement. "Then maybe we should try and sleep?"

There was no response from the little girl, and Cuddy could see her beginning to settle down. Joy's dark brown eyes slowly closing, after a couple minutes, Cuddy was sure she'd fallen asleep.

But as she got up and started to move toward the door, she could hear Joy ask softly, "If I get Dr. House to do all of his clinic duty, can we celebrate Christmas?"

Cuddy's response was immediate. "If you get Dr. House to do his job, I'll get you a _real_ Ogilvy." She could say that, of course, because there was _no_ way House would _ever_ make up all the hours he'd skipped.

"Yay!"

The next several days sure to be filled with Joy bothering him in the hopes of getting what she wanted, Cuddy smiled as she turned off the light. House would be livid, but she would be more than amused. And for the first time in her life, Cuddy couldn't help but think that just _maybe_, there was a Santa Claus after all.

**XII. Fourteen Years Old**

Having stumbled drunkenly through the hallway, she was too confused to know where in her_ own_ home she was right now. Her head fuzzy and spinning, it didn't help that his hand was slowly unbuttoning her shirt, slowly driving her mad. He was kissing her, his wet, insistent tongue forcing its way into her mouth.

Big hands unceremoniously gripping her hips, he pushed her towards… her desk, maybe? Her ass crashing into the lip of the tabletop, she gripped his lapels to keep from falling back. "Be careful," she told him in a hushed voice.

Sarcastically he asked in response, "'Fraid Daddy's gonna come after me with a shotgun?"

"What are you talking about?" she asked confused, glancing around the room to see if there was a light.

His hand sliding underneath her shirt, under her armpit and towards her back, he unsuccessfully tried to unhook her bra.

Squinting in an effort to see his face, she asked, "What are you doing? This bra unhooks in the front. And _where_ is the damn light?" But almost immediately, she shrugged and reached for his zipper. "Whatever, let's get this over with."

"You're so romantic when you're drunk," he quipped, shoving her onto the desk.

And that was when they found the lamp.

Her back smacking into it, she barely had time to react before it crashed onto the ground loudly. His lips immediately descended on hers, he muttered into her mouth, "Guess we found the lamp."

Hands on the side of his face, she shushed him. The quieter they were, the better it would be, she reasoned.

But it was too late.

The noise had been more than loud enough, apparently, and all of a sudden the light came on. Their eyes burning at the sudden brightness, they were anything but prepared for the horrified intruder nearly shouting, "Oh my God! _Mom_!"

"Oh _God_," Cuddy said, mortified, her hands scrambling to pluck House's out from underneath her bra.

House's own "Damn it!" was reflected in the frustrated look he gave her as she quickly began to button her top again.

"What are you two _doing_?" Joy asked, brown eyes wide and disgusted. The question escaping her before she apparently realized what it was exactly that she was asking, she quickly shook her head and held up her hands. "No, no, no, _no_," she said firmly, as House turned and opened his mouth to speak. "Nevermind. Really, I… don't want to know. _Really_, Dr. House," she repeated, catching the same glint in his eyes that Cuddy saw. "I'm already going to need therapy for this. I don't need to hear – or _see_ anymore."

"Sweetheart," Cuddy began to say in apology.

"No, no. Don't need an explanation. _Really_ don't want one," she told her. "I'm just going to climb back up the rabbit hole and pretend I _didn't_ see…" Joy gestured with her hands at them both. "_This_," she said finally.

The blonde quickly disappearing, the two adults were left in silence. And quickly sobering up, Cuddy began to realize just how mortifying this whole situation was.

Her daughter had just caught her rounding the bases with House.

Joy had seen her being _felt up_.

Oh God.

She could feel her cheeks turning red in embarrassment.

House, on the other hand, was just annoyed. "_See_," he said angrily. "I _said _this would happen."

Frowning as she worked hard to follow his train of thought, she pointed out, "You said I'd catch _her_ doing this. Not the other way around."

He rolled his eyes. His voice filled with a distinctive bite, he replied, "Well, how was I to know Mommy would still be the bigger slut fourteen years later?"

Her own irritation present by now, Cuddy told him, with a sigh, "You know… I'm suddenly not in the mood anymore. Good night, House."

He blinked. "What?"

A smirk on her face and a lazy sway to her hips to taunt him as she walked away, she told him, "Lock the door on your way out."

**XIII. Seven Years Old**

Cuddy was late, the board meeting running over by forty-five minutes, thanks to a cantankerous donor who now assumed he _owned_ the hospital. His demands taking up the majority of the discussion, he was a supporter whose support she would definitely _not_ be courting in the future. Because not only had he wasted the hospital's time, but now, thanks to him, she was late to Joy's first school play.

Having been too shy to accept _any_ role until now, her daughter hadn't even been so much as a _tree_ in past years. Always wanting to participate but terrified the moment she was asked to go on stage, Joy had simply been too scared to go through with it. As outspoken and brave as she could be with people she knew, she wasn't that way with strangers. And she certainly wasn't that way _on stage_. So she'd always sat on the sidelines and watched.

But this year, being the only girl with the blonde hair perfect for Sleeping Beauty, she had caved under everyone's pressure, including her mother's, and agreed to take the part.

And Cuddy was _missing _it.

She couldn't have felt more guilty in that moment.

Pushing the doors to the auditorium open an _hour_ after the play was supposed to begin, she had no doubt that it was almost over. Seven year olds could only handle so many lines and so much excitement, and frankly… she was lucky that the play was this long at all.

Her gaze immediately focused on the stage, she closed the doors quietly behind her. Everyone's attention on the play, nobody looked at her, thank God. She already knew that she was a horrible mother for being this late, and she didn't need anyone else's accusing glare to reinforce that fact.

But before Cuddy even began to look for a seat, she noticed: there was no Joy on the stage. In fact, the girl playing Sleeping Beauty was a plump, raven-haired child, and there was _no_ way the seven year old was her underweight, blonde daughter.

Well, Cuddy thought grimly, at least she hadn't missed anything. A sigh escaping her as she began to search for her child, she couldn't help but be a little disappointed. Truth be told, she hadn't exactly expected Joy to go on stage, but part of her had hoped she would. If only to avoid the scene she ended up walking in on when she eventually found Joy.

The little girl sitting on a towel in a corner backstage, Cuddy could hear her cries even before she was close enough to see the tears.

Long blonde strands of hair hanging over her eyes, Joy didn't see Cuddy until she was crouching in front of her. "Joy?"

The sound of her voice was enough to launch Joy into her mother's arms. Her cries turning into loud sobs, she practically wailed, "I couldn't do it."

"Oh, sweetheart," Cuddy soothed. Drawing her daughter in closer with one hand, she could feel the wetness under her fingertips. The moisture pooled around Joy's lower back, bottom, and thighs, it was obvious, immediately so, what had happened.

But Joy confessed anyway, her voice hitching with hiccups as she cried, "And I, I, I… had an _accident_."

"Okay, okay," Cuddy murmured consolingly, pushing back her daughter's messy curls. "It's okay. We can get you cleaned up. It's going to be all right," she said in an effort to reassure the little being trembling in her arms.

"No, it's not," Joy sobbed loudly. Her voice was more than shrill enough for nearby children, parents, and teachers to all turn their head and look at her.

So Cuddy reminded her in gentle but firm tones, "Joy, we're inside. That means we have to talk in –_"_

"I don't care," she interrupted miserably. And just as Cuddy was about to point out that she doubted that was actually true, Joy said miserably, "And you weren't even _here_." There was little accusation in her whiny voice; almost always a sweetly forgiving child, she'd never been able to maintain her anger for long, and for that, Cuddy was grateful. Immensely so, but that didn't mean she didn't feel the guilt wash over her in that moment. Because even if Joy wasn't capable of being unforgiving, she _was_ still hurt.

"I know," Cuddy admitted. "I'm sorry. I'm _very_ sorry, Joy." She contemplated explaining why she'd been late, thought about telling her daughter about the idiot who had kept her from being on time.

But in the end she decided against it, because no matter what she said, no matter what the excuse was, it wouldn't be good enough for Joy.

It _wasn't_ good enough.

So she just apologized once more, "I am _so_ sorry, sweetheart."

Joy was already seemingly past that however. Squirming uncomfortably in her wet pants, she admitted, "I wanna go home, Mommy."

"Right," Cuddy said with a nod. "Where's your back pack?" Silently Joy pointed to a chair six feet away. "Okay, lets go," she told her gently, easily hoisting her small daughter up onto her hip without a second thought.

Urine almost immediately beginning to soak through her Prada dress, Cuddy couldn't help but sigh. Not that it really mattered; Joy was upset, and even if she'd been covered in acid, the mother would have held her at that moment. This was what her daughter needed.

Besides, she thought lazily, there _was_ a reason dry cleaners existed. The little girl rubbing her runny nose on Cuddy's shoulder, she couldn't help but be grateful for _that_ fact.

Silent in Mommy's arms, Joy didn't speak up until they were in the parking lot. As Cuddy helped her into her booster seat, Joy said sadly, "I really wanted to do it."

A sympathetic smile appearing on her face, Cuddy replied, "I know… Maybe next year, though. And I promise you, cross my heart, that I _will_ be there."

"Mommy," she said, suddenly looking and sounding very adult. "I peed my pants _thinking_ about going on stage. 'Snot gonna happen."

Pressing a kiss to her daughter's forehead, Cuddy agreed gently, "Yeah, probably not. But that's okay." She sat on the seat next to her daughter and reminded her, "The important thing is you tried. And… as long as you do that, try to face your fears, that's what matters. I don't care about the rest."

It was a lie.

As she slipped out of the car to get into the driver's seat, Cuddy _knew_ she'd been lying. Too competitive a person to believe that results didn't matter, she had never been content to hear the old "you only have to try" speech. If anything, as a child, she'd been spurred on to try harder, to do _more_ when she'd heard it. And especially considering her love for throwing herself into school, Cuddy couldn't quite understand how Joy _wouldn't_ want to be in the play, _wouldn't_ want to be the center of _positive _attention.

But glancing up into the rearview mirror, she caught a glimpse of her daughter, head cast downward in shame, and she could finally understand why her mother had said the things she had. Smiling Cuddy reached back and grabbed her daughter's foot in a loose grip. A finger gently running along the tiny ankle, the mother said, "It's all right, Joy. I promise."

The words uttered with a comfortable ease, they were ones she herself never would have believed as a child. But, seeing Joy begin to smile almost immediately, Cuddy couldn't have been more relieved to know they were very different people.

**XIV. Ten Years Old**

"Dr. House?"

Her voice was tentative, scared, so much so that he wasn't entirely surprised to see the blood smeared on the front of her lavender dress.

Of course, upon looking at her more closely, he _was_, on the other hand, surprised to see the _pigeon_ in her hands. The gray and white bird shifting under her grip to get away, its orange feet clawing at the air, it clearly wanted no part of this.

And, with a sigh, House could only identify with the vermin. Standing up, he asked irritably, "Where did you get that?"

"Mommy said I could do my homework on one of the benches behind her office," Joy told him. "But when I got out there, I found _her_," she said, holding up the pigeon for him to see. "And –"

"Now you want me to cure your new feathered friend so Mommy can storm in here and yell at _me_ for giving you Psittacosis?" he asked, not liking where any of this was headed.

"I don't know what that is."

"Fancy term for something that makes your penis fall off," House lied, trying to hide his wolfish smile behind the palm of his hand. Sometimes, he thought, it was just too easy to fool her.

Other times not so much, and this moment definitely seemed to fall into the latter category, he lamented. Because, giving him a dark look, Joy said, "I'm not gonna fall for that again, Dr. House. I'm not a boy!"

"I'd say it's telling enough that you fell for it _once_."

She sighed dramatically. "I'm just a little kid," she explained, despite the fact that ten years old probably didn't qualify as a little kid. "I'm allowed to be dumb every now and then."

Raising an eyebrow, he asked, "Oh really?"

"Uh huh. And _I'd_ say it's way more telling that _you_ like to pick on little kids," she added.

"True," he replied after a moment of thought. "Did Mommy tell you to say that?"

"Maybe. Maybe not… you don't know."

"You know I can _get_ that information if I want, right?" Dirty fantasies about all the ways he could torture it out of Cuddy danced before his eyes.

"Are you gonna look at my bird or not?" Joy asked, her voice a little more high-pitched than normal.

Gesturing with his head, House beckoned her closer. The blonde quickly headed towards him, she looked grateful, pleased that he was willing to help. Small hands getting ready to plop the bird down on his desk, he told her gruffly, "Don't do that. I don't want my desk to be infected with Cindy Lou Hoot's germs."

"I like that name," she told him, snuggling the injured pigeon closer to her in response.

Standing up, he couldn't help but think, in the back of his mind, all of the things wrong with the situation. The small bird had probably been hit by a car; that was his best guess anyway, given the way its left wing looked horribly twisted from this distance. And, in that state, the pigeon was probably already in shock. Which meant a child _cuddling_ the damn thing was more than likely only hastening its death.

Not that Joy herself was better off by that much. The bird's beak wouldn't be enough to break the skin even if it did bite her. However, she wasn't protected from any of the other crap potentially on the bird. And either Cuddy would kill him for letting her kid get sick _or_ smirk at him and say he was going soft for saving the pigeon.

Either way, House wasn't pleased with what was going on here.

But then, as his gaze shifted around the room, he caught sight of the box Cuddy had left him. The cardboard confines containing all the paperwork she wanted him to do, it was, without a doubt, the _perfect_ place to stash the pigeon.

"Put the damn thing in this," he told her brusquely the moment he grabbed the box. She obediently followed his instructions, her brow furrowing in concentration as she carefully placed the bird on top of dozens of files. Less willingly did she obey his next order. "Now, go wash your hands."

"But I want to help…"

He shook his head. "Wash your hands. Then you can help."

"But –"

"Just shut up and _do it_ already, all right, kid?" Unfamiliar with having his orders defied, House was quickly losing his patience as well as what little desire he had to help. And perhaps realizing that, Joy listened to him. Her head bent in defeat as she walked into his fellows' larger office, she didn't look like she _wanted_ to do what he asked.

But she did.

Thank God.

Throughout the years, Cuddy had tried to convince him that Joy was actually a quiet, shy child, more eager to please than anything else. Cuddy had said that her daughter was different around him, was… nicer when she didn't have him watching. But for the life of him, House couldn't see how that was true.

Of course, he couldn't possibly observe Joy to see if she changed around him. He understood that much. However, if it were true, that the little girl really _was_ different around others, then he thought he should be able to see the cracks in her façade. He thought there should be _some_ sign that she was truly different.

But if there were, he didn't see it. Because, in his presence, she was always… _plucky_, always snapping at his heels to do one thing or another. Case in point, the moment she pushed the door to his office back open, Joy asked, "Are you done fixing my bird yet?"

"No." He didn't offer any explanation as he looked down to the pigeon in the cardboard crate. The wing was definitely broken, the appendage sticking out from the bird's body awkwardly. But it was still in tact, save for a shallow wound that was bleeding a little.

Well that had to be taken care of first. "Come on," House told her, heading towards the door. He didn't look at her when he added, "And bring the box with you."

As Joy grabbed the crate, she demanded to know, "Where are we going?"

He didn't answer, preferred not to explain something she would understand within a minute or two. Which was, apparently, too long a wait, because she kept asking, "Dr. House, where are we going? Dr. House?"

"We need gauze," he told her simply, hardly an explanation at all.

"And we're going to find that…"

"Here," he told her, holding the exam room door open for her.

The little girl starting to head through, she abruptly turned around. Her eyes narrowed on House, she gave him a stern look. "Won't Mommy be mad if we use a _real_ room for Cindy?"

He waved off her concern. "She'll never know."

Joy stomped a foot lightly. "She _always_ knows."

Sighing, House couldn't help but think that Cuddy had been wrong to dismiss the birth mother's drug use; clearly you couldn't be _this_ idiotic without some lasting effects caused by a chemical substance. Instinctively fishing for a Vicodin, he asked Joy, "Does she know you found the pigeon?"

"No."

"Does she know that you're here with me and _not_ doing your homework?"

She shook her head. "No."

"I rest my case," he said definitively.

"But –"

Losing his patience, he told her, "Either get inside or I'm going to _toss_ the box off of my balcony."

Her dark eyes went wide in shock and horror. The potential act playing in her mind, it was one that had her immediately chancing her mother's wrath and stepping into the exam room.

As he started rooting for gauze and Iodine, she warned him, "Fine, but if she asks what we're doing, I'm blaming it on _you_."

He smirked. "Yeah, because it sounds just like me to find injured birds and _save_ them." At that moment, Joy frowned as though realizing she really would get the blame should they be discovered. Her mood quickly declining, House handed her the gauze and iodine solution. "Here. If we hurry up, Mommy will never know."

"Okay," she said, her mood brightening once more. Her gaze shifting from the box she'd set on the hospital bed to the gauze and iodine in her hands, she looked up at House. Confused, she asked, "What do we do?"

"It's very difficult," he told her sarcastically. "You rip open the packet of gauze. Pour some of the liquid onto it. And then, most complicated of all, clean the wounds on the thing's wing."

Joy shot him a dark look. "You don't have to be mean about it, Dr. House." Nevertheless, she started to do what he had told her.

"True," he agreed. "But being nice is –"

"Not that hard," she muttered in interruption. She started to reach down for the bird, but he stopped her.

"Here," House said, grabbing a set of latex gloves. "Put these on."

"No, it's okay. I don't need them."

Frowning, he asked, "Did that sound like a question? Cause it wasn't." Pretending to contemplate a way to make it sound better, he eventually said, "Oh, I know. We can make this work. Put the gloves on _now_," he nearly barked. Perhaps realizing that he wasn't kidding or offering her a choice, Joy sighed and took the gloves.

Her small, now properly latexed hands dabbing lightly at the pigeon's injured wing, she was seemingly as careful as she could be at tending to the creature. Her focus solely on the bird, she didn't notice the blonde curls falling in her face. Nor did he think she remembered his presence until she asked without looking up, "Am I doing it right?"

"Perfect," he told her honestly. "Better than most of the morons Mommy hires actually." There was a hint of sarcasm in his tones, a hint he'd been unable to keep out of his voice, despite his belief that what he was saying was probably true. Cuddy really did have a penchant for hiring the least worthy, for giving those who deserved no chance a chance.

… He was not unaware that he probably fell into the same category.

Joy said nothing in response immediately. Truthfully, she didn't need to; the fraction of a pleased smile he could see through her blonde locks was proof enough that she'd appreciated his words.

Only when she'd completed her task did she speak again. "What do we have to do next?"

As he took the used gauze and iodine away from her, he explained, "Hold the bird."

But, of course, just like_ Mommy_ would do, Joy didn't follow the instructions as ordered. Tossing the used items into the trashcan, he caught her out of the corner of his eye struggling to take the latex gloves off. "Don't," House ordered.

Immediately she stopped what she was doing. "Sorry, Dr. House" was her half-assed apology.

"Just hold the damn thing, all right?"

With Joy sitting on the hospital bed and his own ass firmly planted on a stool, she held the bird while he wrapped gauze around the pigeon's body. The white material keeping the broken wing flush against the bird's side, it was as close to a cast a pigeon could possibly have.

Making sure the normal wing was free, it wasn't difficult work, particularly. But with the pigeon squirming, a ten year old quickly getting bored, and two sets of hands on the small body, House was more than ready for the experience to be over. And when Joy's foot accidentally grazed his shin a little more roughly than she'd probably intended, he said through gritted teeth, "Sit still."

"Sorry," she muttered, trying to listen to what he was saying. But after a moment's worth of silence, she seemed to realize something was different between him and her. Angrily, she exclaimed, "Hey! You're not wearing gloves."

"Guess not." He was too intent on fixing the bird to pay attention to her.

"But if you don't, why do _I_ have to?" she asked, whining.

"Because," he said dismissively, wrapping the gauze around the pigeon's fat body one more time.

"That's not an answer."

Sighing, House looked up. "Because your mother would be upset if you caught something from this _thing_ and died."

Joy frowned, her eyes sad. "Mommy would be upset if something happened to you too," she said in reassurance.

It was not surprising that his first instinct should be to deny it, not even to his own mind. As easy as it had become to let Cuddy in his bed, or more than usually to join her in her own, it was not quite so easy to accept that… they were probably, well, _definitely_, in some sort of relationship. And so, yes, he was ready to deny all feelings for her and vice versa in that moment.

But he didn't need to.

The intruder suddenly speaking up, Cuddy said with a hint of bitterness in her voice, "Oh, I don't know about that, Joy. Right now, I think I'd be pretty pleased."

Ignoring her, House lowered his voice and muttered to Joy, "See?"

Closing the exam room door behind her with a slam, Cuddy quickly stalked over to them. "You shut up," she ordered House. And, her attention turning to Joy, she asked harshly, "Do you know I've been looking for you for the last fifteen minutes?" Not giving her daughter the chance to respond, she instructed sharply, "You do _not_ run around the hospital. You could be _hurt_. _Kidnapped_, Joy. You can't run around the hospital on your own like this."

Joy's cheeks flushed red, the shame she felt so clearly visible in her eyes. She bowed her head as her mother looked her over expectantly. And, the little girl's grip loosening on the bird, House had no choice but to take the pigeon from her.

The motion caught Cuddy's attention, and then she was back to yelling at him. "You brought a _pigeon_ into an examination room?"

"It would appear that way," he retorted tartly.

She sneered at him. Her hands on her hips, she demanded to know, "What on earth possessed you to bring a disease-ridden _scavenger_ into a _clean_ hospital room?"

His answer was immediate. "Well, you let the kid in the hospital, so I thought…"

The jab had both Cuddys snapping, "Hey!"

With a sigh, House dropped the bird back into the cardboard box of files. "Look, she came to _me_. She wanted my help. I handled it."

Cuddy turned her attention back to Joy. "Then you should have found me, sweetheart, if you needed help. You can't bring animals into the hospital. It's not sanitary or –"

"You were in a meeting," Joy accused quietly, her voice sounding as though she were near tears.

"Yeah," House said in agreement. "_You_ were in a meeting. Which means this _isn't_ my fault, Cuddy. You don't get to blame me for your parenting debacles," he told her knowingly, blue eyes narrowed on her.

Though he didn't mean it precisely to be an insult, there was no doubt in his mind that it _was_. Her eyes darkening, Cuddy explained tersely, "Yes, I was in a meeting. Know who it was with? The hospital's lawyer. We were discussing _you_ and your latest act of stupidity." Gesturing toward the cardboard box, she continued, "Your new bird house? Full of files that billing needs as soon as possible. And if you ignore it, then either I'm going to have to do it _myself_ or find time to schedule _another_ emergency meeting with the budget committee to help you justify that significant loss of income."

Folding her arms across her chest, she concluded, "So actually, _yes_, this _is_ your fault. And the next time you think you should tell me how I've failed as a mother, consider all the ways you've made things _worse_."

She quickly grabbed Joy and left, the blonde looking back at him half-angry, half-thankful as though she couldn't decide who to be angry at.

For his part, House wouldn't deny the truth in Cuddy's words. Nor would he put too much stock in them. Oh she was hurt, _pissed_ – of that he had no doubt. But their relationship, such as it was, was nothing if not fluid.

He wouldn't apologize, nor would she demand an apology, as that would require her to admit she'd been hurt. They'd avoid one another, have another fight, avoid some more, and be back to the way things normally were within a week.

The only thing truly different this time, it seemed, was that now he had a bird he didn't particularly want. Looking down at the wobbly pigeon trying to learn to stand with only one working wing, House couldn't help but think:

Huh.

He had a pet.

**XV. Sixteen Years Old**

He was tossing a Vicodin into his mouth when the doorbell rang. The noise giving him pause, he absentmindedly caught the pill on his tongue and held it there. As though he believed the person on the other side of the door could _hear_ him, House refused to swallow. The Vicodin lazily dissolving on his tongue, his mouth quickly turned acrid.

Everything quickly falling into silence, he was almost convinced that the person had turned and left. But then he heard _it_. The sound of his door being unlocked filled his ears. And sighing, he began to think of all the ways he could insult Wilson or Cuddy for breaking in when they clearly weren't wanted.

But it turned out… it was neither of those people appearing in his doorway. Because, while there was _a_ Cuddy cautiously moving into his house, it wasn't _the_ Cuddy. "Dr. House?" she asked cautiously, closing the door behind her.

Bitterly he swallowed the remainder of the pill in his mouth. Without looking at her, he told her, "Stealing your mother's cash, breaking into people's homes… You're living quite the life of crime there, pipsqueak."

"Don't call me that," Joy whined. "You know I _hate_ being called that."

Finally looking at her as he stood up, House conceded. "I can call you worse things if you prefer." It had been over a week since his diagnosis of conversion disorder, and _that_ wasn't even close to enough time to _begin_ to consider forgiving her. The thought making him realize that Joy probably shouldn't be here, he asked suspiciously, "Shouldn't you be grounded or suffering from some sort of punishment illegal in forty states?"

"Well… yes," she admitted seriously. Her voice turning sarcastic, she continued, "But Mommy got distracted and accidentally forgot to lock the closet door behind her, so…"

He scowled, realizing just how evident it had been that Joy had grown up watching him fight with her mother. So he nitpicked – simply because he _could_. "You're sixteen. Stop calling her 'Mommy,'" he said with a sneer.

"You're, like, a hundred, and you call her 'Mommy,' _and_ she's not even your mother," Joy pointed out annoyed. Her irritation fleeting, however, she almost immediately sighed. Shaking her head, when she looked at him again, she had… these _sad_, pathetic, contrite dark eyes. And she said gently, "I came to apologize."

House cocked his head and looked at her for a brief moment. Contemplating whether or not she meant what she was saying, he considered her carefully. But, now unsure as to whether she was telling the truth or setting him up, he shook his head. "Hmmm, yeah, I don't think so."

She frowned. "But I was wrong, and I –"

"Don't care," he dismissed, coming to stand in front of her.

At over six feet tall, House towered over the sixteen year old who didn't even hit five feet. Hovering somewhere around four eleven, she was easily the smallest non-midget he'd ever met. And given that she probably only weighed ninety pounds sopping wet, he couldn't help but realize that his own stature had to be intimidating.

But if she was scared, she didn't let it show. Because instead of turning and leaving, Joy folded her arms across her chest. "I'm not leaving until you let me apologize."

"But I don't want you to apologize," he insisted. "I _do_ want you to go away."

She frowned a little before petulantly telling him, "Well, you can't make me."

"Huh." He looked down at her, trying to decide whether or not he could do it; but a split second later, throwing caution to the wind, House reached down for her. Slipping his hands underneath her armpits, he easily hoisted her into the air and over his shoulder.

"No!" she screamed in shock, trying to shrug herself out of his grip from upside down. "You can't do this! Put me down!"

He didn't. But then again, even with the door five feet away, it was probably too much of a distance with the extra weight for his leg. Of course, considering he'd already put in the effort to get this far, House shrugged off his own concern and took a step towards the door.

His own hiss of pain masked by another "No!" from her, he wasn't surprised when she started to hit and kick. Her petite body squirming under his grip, she was dealing him blows anywhere she could reach, save for his right thigh. And for that, he was grateful.

On the other hand, House didn't particularly appreciate it when one of her hands accidentally smacked his ass. "Hey!" he snapped gruffly. The joke coming to him easily, he told her, "Only your mother can do that."

"Oh my God EW" was her repulsed reply. "I don't _want_ to hear about your kinky little sex games with my…" Joy couldn't finish the thought, apparently, her chin rubbing against his back as she shook her head. "Just _no_."

Her disgust providing a distraction for her, House slowly took a few more steps. But the labored movement was enough to grab her attention. "Dr. House! Stop," she tried to order. When he didn't, Joy whined, "Put me down!"

Her voice unimaginably shrill, House was getting a headache. The last few steps more than likely too much for his injured thigh, he gritted his teeth, realizing he had no choice; he had to put her down.

Not that it meant he had to do it gently.

Pulling her forward by the hips, he waited till her head had cleared his shoulder. And when that had happened, he unceremoniously dumped her onto the floor. Her ass hit the ground with a loud thud. Dumped at his feet, she looked around, confused at the sudden change.

The surprise on her face making him smirk, House wasn't prepared for the tears. Or maybe tears wasn't the right word, because he couldn't see any moisture on her cheeks or even in her eyes. Really, there was only the whimper in her throat and a trembling in her lips. But she was on the verge of crying; he could see that much. And he couldn't help but wonder if he'd hurt her.

Not that he'd _thrown_ her to the ground, House defended to himself. He'd dropped her but not on her damn _head_ and not from a five-story window either. But here she was, at his feet and practically crying. So, rolling his eyes, House gruffly asked, "You okay?"

She nodded her head before, bizarrely enough, shaking it. "It's either one or the other, kid," he told her.

Looking up at him, Joy said, "You didn't hurt me… I just…" The tears came for real then in fat rivulets running along the curves of her cheeks. "I just don't want you to be mad at me anymore."

His eyes narrowed on her. Unforgiving he reminded her, "You _lied_."

Staying on the floor, she nodded her head. "I know. And I'm _really_ sorry, Dr. House."

The apology didn't interest him; none of it, so he turned away from her unsympathetically, stalking back towards the Vicodin lying on the coffee table. "Could have died," he pointed out anyway.

She sniffled loudly. "I know I was an idiot, okay? I know. I get it."

He moved toward the Maker's Mark he kept on the bookshelf. "You get it's a bad idea to lie to doctors," he said slowly, unscrewing the cap. As he poured himself a drink, House told her, "Self-preservation shouldn't be something you have to _learn_."

Finally standing up, Joy told him, "It's _not_ something I had to learn, Dr. House. I had to lie because..." She paused and shook her head. "I had my reasons for doing it, which you _obviously_ don't care about, so I won't tell you." There was something in her voice meant to be enticing, meant to make him ask what her reasons were.

But House honestly didn't care why. "That's good," he told her. "Cause I've already seen that episode of _Dawson's Creek_, and this would just be a rerun of that, and –"

Walking slowly towards him, she admitted, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"That's because you don't watch enough TV."

"I'm sorry," Joy repeated, sadness and regret laced in every tone.

At that moment, he was more than aware that she was trying to change the topic. But he wasn't going to play along. "Not a problem. It's easy to fix," he deflected. "All you have to do is find the remote and hit the power button."

"I wasn't talking about that."

"I know," House replied, rolling his eyes. "I made a joke in the hopes that you'd be smart enough to realize I don't want to –"

"Why can't you just forgive me?" Joy demanded to know, dark eyes looking up at him. "Why is it that you're allowed to screw up and be an asshole to _everyone_ around you, but I'm not allowed to make a mistake? _Why_ can't you forgive me?" she repeated.

Taking a step closer to her to throw her off her balance, he threw the question back at her. "Why can't you accept that I don't _want_ to forgive you?"

She sighed as though the answer to his question was an obvious one. "Because you've known me since, like, _forever_. And because I've never been pissed at you for being a _jackass_ to me most of that time."

"Well –"

"When I was five, you told me I was a hermaphrodite and that I would grow into a boy," she reminded him.

House couldn't help but smile at that memory; now _that_ had been a great week.

"It's not funny," Joy snapped. "You had me so convinced that I was going to grow a penis and that if I didn't learn to pee standing up, it would shrivel up and I'd get sick and die…"

"Well, how was I to know how gullible you –"

Pointing a finger at him, she asked him, "Do you know how many pairs of pants I _ruined_ trying to pee standing up?"

"Yeah…" he said slowly with a frown on his face. "Your mother stuffed all of them in my desk drawers on a Friday afternoon, so that when I came in on Monday morning, the whole place smelled like urine." He shook his head, eager to forget that memory.

"Oh. I didn't know that."

"But obviously you're over it," House told her sarcastically. "Bringing it up and all – definitely proof that you've forgiven me and forgotten all about it."

"I didn't refuse to _talk_ to you again for the rest of my life, though, did I?" She was getting annoyed.

And so was he. "This is different, kid."

"You scared the _crap_ out of me, Dr. House. It's not different," she argued. He did not appreciate the insinuation that she had scared him at all, even though it was an accurate implication. "You might have thought I was going to die now, but _you_ had me convinced that _I_ was going to die _then_."

"Poor thing" was his bitter comment.

"But I _forgave_ you," Joy replied, paying no attention to his remark. "Because I love you and…"

She said more after that, but he was no longer capable of listening. His mind unable to process anything after her admittance, his ears rang with the words, "I love you."

In sixteen years, House had never supposed that she cared about him one way or the other. In all that time, she'd been little more than window dressing to the whole thing, in a way. Joy was Cuddy's daughter, nothing more or less, and though he knew she was her own person, he had never really… thought of her in her own terms. She had, in his mind, always been part of Cuddy's life, but he'd never thought that he might be a part of _Joy's_ life really.

He'd never considered that she might love him, never even considered that she might truly be a separate entity from her mother.

But here she was… a fully formed person absolutely different than Cuddy. Cuddy had her advantages – funnier, smarter, had a fantastic ass and set of breasts, obviously. She was nice, although not extravagantly so; she put up with a _lot _of his crap, but he doubted she would choose to be in his life if she_ really_ had a choice. Because she might forgive him for things, but she wasn't making the same effort that Joy was.

Cuddy hadn't come by to apologize, anyway.

And she might have loved him as well, but he was certain she'd never said it to him. Not that he could really blame her for it, because he was the same way.

But _Joy_ was… different. She could love him and do so openly, do so in a way he hadn't ever thought possible from anyone other than his mother.

His eyes softening slightly, House was sure he'd never be able to look at her the same way ever again.


	4. Chapter 4

_She was cool underneath the sheets that did little to ward off the increasingly present fall chill. The silky red patterned tank top and shorts not much better, Cuddy was cold. And her body was lightly shaking for reasons she wanted to believe had everything to do with the temperature. But that wasn't true, and she knew it. _

_Because in her pounding heart, she could feel it: she was nervous… afraid even. It hadn't even been a full twenty-four hours. But as the day progressed and the knowledge that she was Joy's mother sank in further, Cuddy was becoming more and more unnerved._

_She was a mother now. _

_And an unprepared one at that; the adoption had gone through at the last minute, and she'd been hoping for those last two weeks of pregnancy to get the spare bedroom painted and to buy all of the things a newborn needed. But now that Joy had come early, Cuddy was behind, _way_ behind. And even if her daughter was in the hospital for the next day or two, Cuddy was _still_ going to have to hurry get everything ready in time._

_Granted… she wasn't completely unprepared. The day the adoption had been approved, she'd purchased a crib. The premature act one she would have probably regretted if everything were to fall through, it had been a spontaneous one – if buying anything for a baby she'd craved for for three years could qualify as "spontaneous." _

_But Cuddy was nothing short of grateful for the celebratory purchase now. Because regardless of what she didn't have, she at least had a place for Joy to sleep. _

_Of course, as it was right now, the crib was completely unusable. Filled to the brim with stuffed animals and toys and coated with thick plastic drop cloth, it might have been assembled, but it really was little more than a choking hazard. Hell, it was a death trap, and she clearly couldn't place her baby in _that_._

_The rest was supposed to be taken care of in the morning. The painters were coming at ten to paint the nursery; at noon workers from the baby shop were coming to assemble the changing table, armoire, and rocking chair. They were also going to install shelves that she'd been assured, with condescending smirks on their faces, Joy would never be able to climb on and leap off of._

_They'd also assured her that they could get the job done in a matter of hours. But all Cuddy could picture, as she tried to get some sleep, was all the ways this could go wrong._

_Wilson had offered to sit and wait for the workmen to come in the morning, and she'd eagerly accepted. Because, as much as she didn't mind waiting herself, this way, she would be able to get into the hospital and see Joy earlier in the day. _

_But on the other hand… Wilson wasn't a perfect choice. She trusted him implicitly, but she couldn't help but think of a million little what ifs that would ruin everything. What would happen if House dragged him away? What would happen if Wilson were in the middle of a phone consult or consoling a distraught patient when the painters came? _

_Or for that matter, what if the painters _never_ came, she wondered._

_What if one of them hit their head on the chandelier? Or what if one suddenly began to have an allergic reaction to something in her home? _

_And while one of those men went into anaphylaxis in her mind, Cuddy wondered about the smaller details of the project – like the paint color. What if it was all wrong? She'd picked yellow, but what if Joy hated it? _

_Of course it was stupid to worry about that now when the little girl was only _hours_ old. Cuddy knew that much, especially considering a baby wouldn't care one way or the other what colors the nursery was. But somehow the possibility of her daughter hating yellow plagued her mind, seemed like proof that Cuddy didn't really _know_ her own child like she thought she instinctively should. _

_But even setting that ridiculous concern aside, Cuddy still questioned the yellow. What if it was too light to cover the green that had come with the house? What if she'd needed primer in order to get the right shade? _

_She hadn't purchased it, hadn't even considered it at the paint store, and now there was the very real possibility that her daughter was going to have to live in a room the color of mucus. _

_Oh God._

_Oh _God_. This was a disaster, she thought, beginning to hyperventilate. A panic attack easily setting in over her and gripping at the edges of her sanity, she could feel her breath coming out in short spurts. The feeling as though there wasn't enough oxygen in the room burning in her lungs, Cuddy realized: _

_Nothing was ready._

_The nursery wasn't ready, and _she_ wasn't ready, and there was no reason to even try to sleep right now._

_She shouldn't even be trying to sleep, she thought bitterly. She hadn't earned the right to relax. And especially when House was predicting that all of this would fall apart, she should be ensuring that it absolutely wasn't going to._

_The punishing thought aggravating her already frazzled mind, Cuddy pushed the covers off of her body. Getting out of bed in one fluid motion, she snatched her white bathrobe and quickly put it on. Her hands didn't even bother to do the sash as she headed straight toward the nursery._

_Turning on the spotlight she'd placed in the room, she turned toward the paint. With a sigh, she told herself: even if _she_ wasn't ready, she could, in the very least, take steps towards making sure the room was. Grabbing a paint roller, she got to work. _

_The desire for sleep was completely gone from her now anyway. Which was always the case when she was creating activities for herself in order to avoid the doubts plaguing her mind. House liked to describe it as "her head exploding," but the truth was it wasn't like that for her. Instead of an overabundance of emotions, in these times, Cuddy would really just… cease to think. Her body acting on its own accord, she would do one task right after another only to eventually look up and fail to remember how she got there. _

_But she quickly realized that this wasn't going to be like that. Even though she'd started to paint mindlessly, her brain was still trying to unravel all of the problems that seemed present in her life. Or rather, she couldn't stop thinking about the one: House. Because even though her concerns with Joy had not been fully allayed, she was doing the best she could to do just that. She was making headway there. _

_But her issues with House…_

_Well, they weren't going to go away on their own. And while she'd been willing to believe that his problems with this adoption weren't going to be her own before, she could now see that wasn't true at all. He was making this her problem, and Cuddy was beginning to understand that he would never deal with this on his own accord. _

_Nor would he get over it suddenly by fully appreciating the art of the silent treatment she was trying to give him. She had thought that maybe, by not responding to his crap, he would take the hint. But she probably should have learned a long time ago that a lack of a reaction on her part would force him to do more outrageous things. _

_And, really, how long would it be before those pranks and jokes and hurtful acts became focused on Joy herself?_

_Looking at the half-green, half-yellow wall, Cuddy sighed. It probably wasn't fair to think that way. House _was_ able to control himself when he wanted to. He would be no more hurtful to her daughter than he was to anyone else. And Cuddy knew that he would hold Joy, at some point, in some measure of respect simply out of her relation to Cuddy herself. Because, as much as House tried not to like anyone, she knew that he held her in a higher regard than he did most others._

_Which was… precisely the problem, she realized with another sigh, in his acceptance. He cared about her, in his own way, anyway. And he obviously didn't want to see her get hurt or for things to change, even though they undoubtedly would. He just wanted everything to stay as it was, wanted to keep her at his beck and call._

_He wanted her all to himself. _

_And why she should have ever thought that he would immediately accept a baby in her life she didn't know. _

_As she made a long stroke of yellow on the wall, she couldn't help but think that kind of blind optimism had been stupid. House was a very sensitive person, sensitive to change, at least, with coping mechanisms that _really_ didn't work at all. Which meant that the slightest hint that things might be different sent him spiraling. _

_So yes, she thought once more, it really had been idiotic to think that he could easily adjust. Or to think that he would even _eventually_ warm up to Joy, because House would never do that on his own. He would _always_ stubbornly cling to the past over embracing the future – especially when he believed that the change in his life was temporary. _

_And until he accepted that Joy was here to stay, a permanent fixture in their lives, he wouldn't ever move on. _

_The catch-22 was as apparent as the long streaks of yellow she was painting on the moss-colored walls. He wouldn't accept that this was a permanent change in their lives until he'd accepted that Joy was being adopted – and he wouldn't accept Joy being adopted until he knew that this was going to be forever. _

_It was hopeless, she immediately thought, her hand ready to throw the paint roller into the pan in frustration. _

_But then, a small voice inside of her whispered, reassured that the situation wasn't actually hopeless. Because if Cuddy had ever believed anything about House was without hope, she would have cut him out of her life _years_ ago. She'd only kept him around, because she _knew_ that he was capable of kindness, of his own brand of affection, of occasionally embracing her flaws and trying to avoid hurting her with his own. _

_And that meant… she could work with House. She could, no, _would_ get him to stop acting like an ass (in this regard, anyway). _

_The first wall of the nursery complete, Cuddy stepped back and surveyed the area. Although the paint was nowhere near dry, so far… it looked okay. _

_And things, she told herself, would be okay. _

_House was upset now, but she could make him see reason. She could make him accept this. By forcing him to see that Joy was permanent, by showing him that she could still… be part of his life, Cuddy hoped he would eventually accept her decision to adopt._

_There was no set plan in her mind; she had no step-by-step process to follow. After all, it wasn't like there was an adult version of "Mommy won't love the new baby any more than she loves you."_

_Glancing around the room once more, Cuddy sighed. The yellow was beginning to settle in, the morning sunlight beginning to warm the room and help dry the paint. The nursery was looking… good actually; things were looking up. _

_And for the first time since she'd come home, she could breathe once more. _

_That feeling lasting as she got ready for work an hour later, she couldn't help but think in the back of her mind that House was right in one respect: she really _was_ deranged. An extra bounce in her step as she walked along the hospital hallways, earnest smiles toward all of her staff regardless of what they were doing – she was _peppy_ and _chipper._ So much so that not even her assistant losing a check from a very generous donor could keep her down. So fulfilled thanks to Joy, Cuddy didn't care about the screw ups anymore, just as she didn't mind forgiving Becca for making the decision to have the C-section. _

_Thanks to the precious girl currently sleeping off a milk-induced haze in the NICU, Cuddy was… deliriously happy and more than willing to overlook what Becca had done. And so when the young woman who had given her the most amazing gift imaginable wanted to speak to her, Cuddy had mindlessly said yes. _

_Years later, this was what she would remember more than anything – how, in barely a day's time, Joy had blinded her to all of the dangers and dilemmas that lay ahead. Years later, Cuddy would remember sitting on Becca's bed, would remember the way the young woman had apologized to her for nearly _killing_ Joy. _

_Cuddy would remember the way happiness had spread through her body when Becca had described seeing mother and daughter together. "When I saw you hold her… and the look on your face…"_

_Smiling into the flesh of her fingers, Cuddy didn't need to imagine what it was the other woman had seen. Because whatever Becca had seen… it couldn't have possibly accurately reflected the well of emotions Cuddy had _felt_ the first time she held Joy. Holding her daughter, feeling her own love and dedication radiate from within her, Cuddy had _never_ been that fulfilled, that content. _

_Her life spent actively avoiding feelings of motherhood, or conversely desperately trying to find them, she hadn't ever believed it would come naturally to her. Even as the adoption was being approved, Cuddy had wondered, in the back of her mind, how well she would take to this. _

_But holding Joy in her arms for the first time…_

_There was no question in her mind now. _

_There was no doubt that she could do this. _

_And Becca, the woman who had no reason to appreciate the moment, seemed to have, because she agreed, "It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."_

_Truth be told, as horrible as it was to think it, Cuddy's initial reaction was to contemplate calling House in here. Because, once forced to listen to what Becca was saying, forced to see that people could be selfless and good, maybe he would _stop_ with this childish nonsense. _

_Maybe he would see that Cuddy _was_ going to do this._

_But knowing him, she figured he would find some awful way to discount the evidence. And frankly, she had no desire to deal with that – or him right now. Because despite the pain Becca was obviously in, Cuddy couldn't help but be blissful listening to the other woman recognize the rightness of this adoption. _

_The memory of holding _her_ daughter for the first time so powerfully playing before Cuddy's eyes, she had no desire to ruin the moment by finding House. _

_But as it turned out, however, he didn't need to be in the room for that to happen. Becca's eyes cast down sadly, she said, "And that's when I realized… I can't." _

_The non sequitur not fully penetrating her mind, Cuddy waited for the woman to finish. Eagerly waited for her to complete the thought that probably ran along the lines of, "I can't… provide the home you can" or "I can't… be the mother she deserves."_

_But unsure of what was precisely being said, Cuddy instinctively waited for the rest of the sentence. _

_It never came._

_And that was when _she_ realized, it wouldn't._

_Her right eyebrow twitching on its own volition, the happiness beginning to drain out of her face, she could feel something she couldn't quite name begin to claw inside of her. Not precisely a fear or a realization, it was something that was making her stomach turn and lips part. Cautiously, Cuddy said, "Becca." _

_There was a pregnant pause filled with apprehension and disbelief before Becca explained, "My life has always been about pain and anger and disappointment." She shook her head as though willing away bad memories and experiences. "Never about love and…"_

_Cuddy's hand pulling away from her mouth, her fingers paused in midair. _

_She knew what was going to come._

_She knew what Becca was going to say even before the words had escaped her petite mouth, and Cuddy could only sit there in horror. _

_She could only wait for it to happen. _

"_That's when I realized, you know, it could be," Becca explained. "And I can't give that away." _

_Her words hit Cuddy hard in the gut, each syllable making her stomach twist and turn painfully with realization. She wasn't going to get the –_

_No._

_No, no, no, no, _no_. _

_She shook her head over and over. This wasn't happening; this wasn't _going_ to happen. "Becca, don't do this." _

_But the other woman only exhaled a rough breath and looked down toward her hands. Her mouth remaining tightly closed, it was impossible to miss the meaning of her body language: she wasn't going to change her mind. _

_And feeling as though she had been slapped, Cuddy quickly scrambled to get up off of the bed. Her mouth open in shock, in disgust, she thought she might throw up, as she desperately clawed for a way out of this nightmare. A trembling hand covering the side of her face, she could feel her future slipping out of her grasp. Her daughter was escaping her grip in the same ease that the small cry slid past Cuddy's throat. _

_It needed to stop. _

This_ needed to stop _now_. _

_Her mind suddenly blank, suddenly useless, Cuddy tried to find the words to get through to Becca. The only tools always readily available at her fingertips, she turned to the medicine. Turned to the one thing that was black and white and comfortable and right; she turned to reason if only to avoid the chaos threatening to consume her in this moment._

_Spinning to face Becca once more, she explained, "What you're feeling's natural. But you're filled with hormones and emotions and fear and…" Her own emotion and fear audible in her tones, she struggled to find the words she needed to say. "You just can't make a huge decision like this," she said, smiling a smile that was devoid of any warmth or happiness; instead it was a forced one, one that she felt she had to give in order to keep Becca believing the lie that Cuddy really was this perfect woman. Quickly, she added, "You have to give it some time." _

_Nodding her head, she thought it made perfect sense. Give it time, and eventually Becca would realize that the adoption was right. _

_But she _wasn't _interested. "I'm… I'm so sorry," Becca said in the voice that said she wasn't that sorry or contrite at all, as she shook her head. _

_And Cuddy knew rationally that she should have given up then. Nodding her head and frowning, she understood that Becca wasn't going to back away from this. But the memory of holding _her_ daughter still playing in her mind, Cuddy clutched to her own maternity tightly. _

_Tearing up, she blinked slowly, swallowing hard to protect herself from becoming too emotional. She needed a reason, needed the words, needed… to say the one thing that would convince Becca. _

_But, damn it, nothing was coming. Nothing in her head seemed good enough to say. _

_Grasping at straws, she finally offered the same warning House had given her, "It's a decision that changes everything. Changes the rest of your life." _

_But when Becca spoke, her response was the same Cuddy's had been. "I hope so." The answer said with a similar determination Cuddy herself had offered, she knew it was over. _

_Her eyes blurry with tears, she stumbled out of the room. Her feet awkwardly moving in her heels, she lacked all grace on the uneven terrain created only when your world was disintegrating around you. _

_And Cuddy thought then that she knew what it meant to truly be broken by something. The failed IVF, the miscarriage – none of it could compare to _this_, to the tortuous realization that House was right. _

_Motherhood for her had been temporary._

_She'd been given an agonizingly perfect twenty-four hour glimpse into what the life she wished for would be like. But now… _

_The dream was over. _

_Joy was no longer hers. _

_And as far as Cuddy could see, there would never be any joy for her again._

**XVI. Eighteen Years Old**

She was in denial that this day was even happening.

Yes, Cuddy had packed the car herself. Yes, she had been the one to drive them into New York. And yes, she'd also helped her daughter unpack and put her things away in her dorm room. But she had yet to accept that Joy was actually old enough to be starting college… or that she was old enough to _move out_.

And frankly, Cuddy thought the longer she ignored that fact, the better it was for the both of them. Because if she thought about it for too long, she would be unable to stop herself from crying.

Which she would probably do anyway as soon as she got in the car and left Joy behind, she realized. So really, this, she supposed, was little more than an exercise in futility. But given her daughter's shyness, her reticence about starting something new, Cuddy understood it was probably important to try to appear relaxed, supportive… _happy_.

None of those qualities found in her inherent reaction to this drastic change, she was finding herself forced to swallow _many_ of her initial impressions. Like when she'd learned that there was no air conditioning in the dorm and the idiotic resident advisor had said that that was the best part about the dormitory; "the heat makes you lose weight," she'd explained in a conspiring voice to Joy. As though the eighteen year old who still had to buy her clothes in the children's department and had to actively work to _maintain_ a good BMI needed to lose weight. The idea so stupid and so annoying, it had made Cuddy want to smack the stranger _hard_.

Of course the young woman wasn't the only vapid person on campus… unfortunately. Nor was she the only one who had the capabilities of wearing down Cuddy's happy veneer.

Joy's would-be roommate had been just as terrible.

Now, granted, there was a menorah on the girl's side of the room, which Joy, who had somehow become the best-behaved Jew Cuddy had ever known, would obviously appreciate. But…obviously the stranger had no appreciation for their collective religion; instead of candles, the young woman had placed _incense_ sticks. And where the Star of David was, she'd covered it with the sticker of a pot leaf.

Which was _wonderful_ enough, but that had been nothing compared to the girl's first words to both Cuddy and Joy. "I'd hug you, because we're gonna be roomies and all. But I just got my nips pierced, so," she'd drawled out listlessly. "Well, you know… not big on hugging just yet."

That moment _still_ playing in her mind, Cuddy could barely eat the salad in front of her. Too conflicted about letting Joy go and experience life on her own and _dragging_ her back home out of fear, she could hardly think about eating.

As if to provide the perfect contrast, Joy was happily chewing on the jalapeno, bacon, and onion cheeseburger-monstrosity that she'd ordered. Toppings peaking out of the sandwich every which way, it was literally one ingredient after another that made Cuddy's stomach acid splash about painfully. But the blonde didn't seem to mind, not even after Cuddy had warned her about the cholesterol content of the dish.

Watching Joy delicately tear off another bite of the burger and gingerly chew it, Cuddy was completely unprepared when her daughter said, "Dr. House was right; this is a great place to eat."

_House_.

These days there was no other person, no other _word_ that could rouse so many conflicting emotions in Cuddy. As complex as things had been before Joy and for the first decade or so of her life, they were much more difficult now.

After the summer Joy had been admitted to the hospital, they had… fallen apart in a way that Cuddy hadn't expected. She couldn't, nor would she, deny that her relationship with House had always been tenuous at best. There had always been a fight lurking around the corner; there had always been tension and anger mixed with affection. There had always been weeks where they would avoid and dismiss and deny followed by weeks of meddling and acceptance and sometimes even agreement. And she had assumed that the fight they'd had while Joy was in the hospital had fallen into the normal guidelines of their relationship.

But for reasons she didn't understand, it hadn't.

And while there had been a brief reprieve when House's mother and Wilson had died within months of one another, things hadn't gone back to the way they were before Joy absconded to Chicago.

Which, for the life of her, Cuddy _couldn't _understand. They'd fought in the hospital, but they had said – and _done_ – worse things to one another before that. And it couldn't have been the act of Joy lying itself, because House and Joy were practically best friends these days.

Much to Cuddy's dismay.

She didn't know what exactly had happened between the two to make them want to be around one another. But potentially blinded by her own jealousy, Cuddy could only see the bad reasons, the wrong sort of motivation that would break her daughter's heart. As much as Cuddy might like to believe that House cared about Joy, she _couldn't_. He'd resented her daughter's presence for so long that it seemed impossible to believe that he could suddenly change. Because…

House didn't change.

Ever.

And if he were the same manipulative, selfish asshole that he always was, then it could only mean that he was using Joy to get to _her_.

Her suspicions routinely ignored by her daughter, Cuddy sighed and looked down at her watery spinach salad. "Right," she said with dismay. "Dr. House recommended this restaurant so –"

"Mom," Joy warned half-heartedly, setting her cheeseburger down on top of the bed of French fries waiting for her. "I told him where I was going to school. He told me that I would probably like the burgers here, and I thought the food sounded good. So I suggested it to you." Picking up her cheeseburger once more, she quietly accused, "It's not complicated, and you're making it sound like… he and I are planning on kidnapping the Lindberg baby together or that I'm in _love _with him."

Cuddy let out a soft "Huh." Tentatively poaching a pear onto the end of her fork, she couldn't help but feel like an idiot. She'd never imagined that there would be anything _sexual_ between House and her daughter; she trusted him that much still.

But, if Joy were in love with him, Cuddy wondered if she could trust House enough _not_ to manipulate her daughter and to use her to get to Cuddy herself. Thinking about it briefly, she wasn't sure that she could.

Lazily moving the pear around the plate, she timidly looked up and asked, "Are, are you… in love with him?"

Joy hastily swallowed the bite of food in her mouth. Holding up a hand, she couldn't help but ask, "Are we seriously having this conversation?" When Cuddy looked away in response, she exclaimed, "Oh my God, _no_. Are you senile?"

Clearing her throat, Cuddy warned in a maternal tone, "Don't be rude to me."

Joy's next words uttered much more calmly, she reassured, "I'm not in love with Dr. House. But even if I were, nothing would happen, because the whole mother-daughter thing? There _are_ some levels of perversion that even _he_ won't stoop to – or so I'm told," she joked.

It did nothing to allay Cuddy's fears. "Uh huh."

"Look, I may love Dr. House, but –"

"You love House?" Cuddy repeated, her voice tightening in realization. This was worse than anything she'd imagined.

Joy groaned. "You two_ clearly_ belong together," she offered darkly, seriously. "Because you both are _so_ clueless." She sounded more frustrated than angry, but nevertheless, Cuddy was sure it was the most furious Joy had ever been with her. As if to prove the point, the teenager angrily bunched her napkin together with her fingers. "I've known him my _entire_ life, and in that time, I've seen him… a _lot, _maybe not on a daily basis, but as good as. I saw him more than Nana and everyone else in our family, that's for sure."

Cuddy shook her head. "You've seen a lot of people more than them. Dr. Wilson and Dr. Kutner, for example – are you saying that you love them –"

"Mommy, don't act like this isn't different," Joy stressed. "I know I saw them a lot too. But they weren't around in the same way Dr. House was. I only _ever_ saw them in the hospital, except for a few times. None of _them_ slept with my mother for _years_. They weren't at the house all the time, and when they were, it was always to deal with you and leave. They were always… your friends. They weren't mine," she told her quietly.

"House isn't your friend," Cuddy replied instantly.

As soon as the words had escaped her, she could hear how _cold_ they were, how callous they were. And while she didn't regret saying what she knew to probably be the truth, Cuddy couldn't help but wish that she'd found a better a way to put it.

Joy pushed her plate of food away. "I know that he didn't really like me when I was a kid. I haven't forgotten what _that_ was like, and you don't need to tell me that he can act like –"

"A child? An asshole?" Cuddy offered. "A selfish –"

"Yes, I know," she interrupted irritably. "He has… _many_ issues. But you of all people should know by now that he's not… _incapable_ of love."

Cuddy's eyes narrowed on her daughter. "So now… he loves you too?" she asked cautiously, filling in the lines.

Joy's brown eyes narrowing on her, she snapped, "Mommy, stop it. He _does_ love me, and I kind of think you would agree with me when I say that if you weren't so caught up in being mad at him for being mad at you," she said knowingly.

Shaking her head, Cuddy start to deny it. "That's not –"

"True? Of course it is. You may rationalize it as something else, but we both know…" She was not trying to be mean, wasn't trying to sound that way, but Cuddy was sure that in Joy's head, that was exactly how it sounded. The blonde looked down at her plate before saying, "I'm sorry. I'm not – I'm sorry," she repeated. "I shouldn't pretend to know what's going on between the two of you. But then… I don't think you can really say you know what it's like between Dr. House and me either."

"Sweetheart," Cuddy told her seriously. "I've known you your entire life, and I've known House for most of his. I think –"

"And Dr. House and I have known each other for eighteen years," Joy pointed out irritably. "It might not have always been perfect; he might have only been interested in seeing you, but it's still _eighteen years_, Mommy. And whether you like or not, whether you _intended_ it or not, he's somebody I care about. He's the closest thing I've ever had to a dad, and I'm not going to give that up, because it bothers you to know he and I can do things without you." With a graveness to her voice, Joy told her, "I can't suddenly pretend that he doesn't matter to me simply because you two are fighting. I won't."

A fierceness in her daughter's words that she'd never heard before, Cuddy couldn't help but think she'd missed something.

Just how close _was_ House to Joy if she were willing to be _this_ passionate about his presence in her life?

The question one she had no answer for, Cuddy could only believe that just _maybe_ she'd underestimated the size of House's role in their lives.

**XVII. Eighteen, nineteen, something like that**

Considering he now spent most of his time at Cuddy's, it had been with luck that he'd gotten Joy's phone call at all. He'd only come back to the apartment to pick up a suit and tie for the libel suit hearing that the hospital's lawyer had insisted would go away. Would go away if House kept his mouth shut, anyway. And although Cuddy had bought him a new suit and tie, he'd rejected it on the grounds that he wasn't a doll for her to dress.

The spat reminding them once more that things between them would never be perfect, it had also been proof that they were doing the right thing by not telling Joy they were essentially living together.

The issue wasn't – and had never been – that Joy was opposed to this hellish union. Honestly, she, more so than anyone else, would have approved of the idea. While Cuddy and House both refused to broach the subject for any length of time, Joy had no problem talking about the relationship. After all, it had been _Joy_ who had ruined many a game of bowling by casually mentioning the date her mother was on. It had been _Joy_ who had agreed to keep tabs on Cuddy – although the twenty-dollar-an-hour fee had made House rethink the whole agreement. And it had been Joy who had said whatever the hell it was that she'd said when Cuddy had taken her to school that had the brunette banging on his door in apology the second she returned from New York.

No, the problem wasn't that Joy would be opposed. Really, despite the gagging noises she'd made upon discovering House and her mother making out during Hanukkah, the pipsqueak seemed… happy that they were together once more. And although House and Cuddy hadn't talked about it, they both knew she would be upset if things didn't work out this time. Especially since they'd begun to take this extra step together by making his apartment something he rarely visited.

Of course House was now sure that their protectiveness didn't matter; the phone call he shouldn't have gotten but had anyway had been short. Her voice soft and nervous, she'd sounded like she was in tears. Which didn't set off any alarm bells in his head, to be honest. Because for the last several months now, Joy had been unhappy overall. The management major she'd chosen for herself out of practicality and not any real interest in the subject, House wasn't surprised that she hated it.

Nor should she have been surprised that, when she did call him, he always suggested dropping out. As wrong as he knew it was, he was serious when he told her to drop out and come home. Because ever since she'd said, "I love you," he hadn't been able to ignore her completely.

Despite knowing that she would be _way_ better off without him, House hadn't been able to push her away. She'd ask him to do something, and he'd respond with a bitter, sarcastic comment, but then he'd find himself doing what she wanted anyway. For whatever reason, Joy had somehow managed to manipulate him, pull him in close, and when Wilson had died, House had found himself drawing her closer.

Which meant that Cuddy had accused him of using her daughter as a Wilson substitute. And part of him hadn't denied that that was true. He liked to bowl with the kid, liked to steal food from her, and on occasion, when it was early enough, he'd call her to drive him home when he was drunk. And just like Wilson, she enjoyed the first, tolerated the second, and just barely accepted the last.

But what Cuddy hadn't realized at the time was that House understood that Joy wasn't his dead best friend. He had no problem accepting that fact, save for the few instances the brat had decided to punish him for the drunken phone calls; when she'd told the bartender that she was here to pick up her_ daddy_ (she'd actually _used_ the demonic term) who had an unfortunate drinking problem, _yeah_, House had wished Wilson were still alive.

He'd take a lecture over someone claiming to be his progeny _any_ day of the week.

But now with Joy at school… House had been thinking, on a regular basis no less, that he'd almost rather be called daddy every day of the week than be alone.

_Almost. _

It was a pathetic thought, he realized. Especially considering he now had Cuddy back in his life, it should have been a thought that he didn't even have. But nevertheless… he couldn't help but want the _other_ Cuddy back as well. If only because she'd been such a staple for almost two decades, she shouldn't have been allowed to leave, he reasoned.

So when she'd practically begged him with tears in her voice, "Can you come get me? I'm at the train station," he'd instantly agreed.

In the back of his mind, House tried to tell himself that he didn't actually _miss_ Joy. He just wasn't used to walking around the hospital without the ankle biter nipping at his heels.

That was _all _it was.

But his spirits betrayed him by lifting abruptly as he got into his car. And no matter how many times he tried to convince himself that this actually was an inconvenience and a pain, he _couldn't_ be miserable… shockingly enough.

Not that it mattered in the end; the uncharacteristic feeling short-lived, it was one promptly dashed the moment he saw her.

She looked like _hell_, and considering he was used to waking up next to Cuddy, that was saying a lot.

Joy stood by the outdoor ticket counter, her back pressed tightly against the brick building. She was shaking, probably from the cold wind she had no protection from. The black tights she was wearing had long runs in them, her pale skin peaking out every now and then. And over the right knee, there was absolutely no elastic material left, the bared flesh lightly skinned from what his aged eyes could tell.

The hot pink dress she wore wasn't much better. Sleeveless and askew, it did nothing to keep her warm either. A bizarre desire to take off his coat and hand it to her arising from nowhere, House promptly stuffed his hands in his pockets and pushed the feeling aside.

_That_ was the kind of act pimply teenager boys did on the first date when they were still trying to get into the girl's pants, which he definitely wasn't, and the sort of thing concerned fathers did. And the only time he was ever "Daddy" was when he was drunk out of his mind and Joy was feeling cruel, and considering he was sober (sober_ish_ anyway) and she just looked lost, he wasn't "Daddy" right now.

So the coat stayed where it was, on his body.

Which was the opposite of what her blond curls were doing. Looking at her from the shortening distance, he could see that there had been, at one point anyway, two small plaits running along the sides of her head. But now the long waves had begun to rebel, strands falling out of the once neatly tucked braids.

And all of that – the tights, the dress, and the hair – could have been the result of a lengthy train ride, House supposed. Even the lipstick smeared onto her face and the mascara blurred deeply underneath her eyes could be explained by that, he thought as he stopped in front of her.

The abnormally dilated pupils and extra twitch in her hands did not fit quite so neatly into his theory, he realized. And the complete lack of luggage with her only made him more curious, as well as more annoyed at the mystery presenting itself to him. Scowling at her, House announced his presence by saying, "You look like Piglet on meth."

Her body jumping in surprise, she looked up at him with wide eyes. Nervously rubbing her nose with the back of her hand, she didn't deny it right away. And he knew immediately that something was wrong. Because nervous ticks and disheveled appearance aside, if Joy were okay, she would have already made a retort or a denial or more than likely both. But instead, she was slow – agonizingly slow – to respond with a meek "I'm not high."

The "on meth anyway" went unspoken, but he heard it loud and clear nonetheless. And not entirely in the mood for a game, he testily asked, "What _are_ you on then? The look, while interesting, hardly speaks to sober living." As an afterthought, House added, "I should know."

But if he was hoping for an honest answer from her, he was sure he didn't get it when she said, "I… nothing. I don't know."

Frowning, he guided Joy by the elbow to his car (it was too cold for the bike). "Obviously, you're on something," he noted.

She shrugged, softly admitted, "I took something, but I don't remember what –"

"You're a terrible liar, you _liar_," he told her irritably. "First you're not high. Now you are. Then you say you don't remember what you took, but I'm thinking in ten minutes that part of the story will change to." He tried to keep the anger out of his tones, tried to tell himself that he wasn't even _angry_. But frankly, it was late and cold, and his leg hurt, and he wished Joy would just spit out what had happened, so his mind would stop picking at the puzzle and he could go home and sleep.

But she didn't elaborate or offer any more words until they'd driven out of the parking lot. That was when she lamely defended with no conviction in the tones, "It wasn't my idea." She'd curled up in the passenger seat, her knees drawn close to her chest. And her chin resting on top of the knobby joints, her voice had been muffled.

His own response was clearer. "Yeah, well, the Vicodin wasn't my idea either, but…"

"My roommate said she was going to a seder at her boyfriend's house," she intoned listlessly. Her voice was quiet enough that he could barely hear her over the noisy wind battering his car. "We don't really have anything in common except being Jews… But I thought she was being friendly when she invited me, so I said yes."

Her gaze was on her hands, making it impossible for him to tell if she were lying. His own pair of eyes looking over to see what she was looking at, he noticed a few of her fingernails had been broken. "Well, I remember the part of the story about killing the first-born sons," he drawled out slowly. "Pretty sure there's no footnote about sole-born daughters losing their nails. So I'm guessing there's more to this _fascinating_ tale."

She tucked her fingers underneath her palms. "There were a bunch of people. Someone had replaced everything on the seder plate. The karpas ended up being… pot." She sighed, a watery smile appearing on her lips.

"If your mother celebrated Passover that way," House admitted, "I might be more interested."

She didn't react to the joke.

Her gaze still not on him, Joy explained, "They replaced the maror with different kinds of pills. I don't know what most of them were. And I don't know who brought them. A couple people must have," she said in dim recognition, although she didn't explain how she'd come to that conclusion.

Nor did House really need or want an explanation; he was beginning to see where this story was going, and he didn't like it.

"We had to pick a couple, take them, you know?" She sniffled loudly. "While everyone else was going, I was thinking… I should leave. I shouldn't do this." Her voice was tight with emotion, with _regret_, the words falling from her lips in uneven tones.

"Yes, but the possibility of an overdose or fatal drug interaction just sounded too enticing, right?" he asked unrelentingly. The statement more damning than she deserved and definitely more hypocritical than he would have liked, it was one that caused a pang of guilt to flow through him.

And apparently through Joy as well. Her petite body turning away from him, it was only through her reflection in the passenger side window that he could see the guilt in her eyes. "I wasn't trying to kill myself before," she slowly admitted.

But that did little to answer any of the questions in his head. What the hell had happened tonight? What marked the before, during, and after she was now alluding to? And why had she called _him_ and not her mother? Why hadn't she called Cuddy, the person who would absolutely be sympathetic and kind and not at all annoyed by a story told to her piecemeal?

"I was going to go back to the dorm," Joy told him quietly. "But then… I thought about what Mommy's been saying, you know? About how I should make more of an effort to make friends and join things."

He nodded his head. His voice sarcastic, he agreed, "Makes perfect sense. Setting aside that pesky little fact that I really doubt she wanted you to get high, you should definitely take Mommy's advice since she's always been _oh so_ popular."

At that point, he almost expected her to remind him of all the times he'd seriously tried to pawn liquor off onto her by joking it would make her cooler.

But she didn't.

Instead Joy blinked erratically and told him, "I thought that I could just… I don't know. Some of the pills looked familiar," she said with a shrug. "I thought I could take the ones that didn't look bad. I thought…" Her voice trailed off as though she was beginning to recognize just how stupid and naïve her plan had been.

Which House liked, frankly, because it meant that he didn't have to spend the next five minutes showing her all the ways her logic failed. A lecture he had no desire to give receding into the back off his mind, he stayed focused on driving and the prospect of what Cuddy would say when she learned about this.

But if he thought, even for a brief moment, that they'd reached the end of the story, he was wrong. "When it was my turn," she mentioned in a low voice. "I grabbed two pills. They looked like Amoxicillin, and I knew that wouldn't hurt me. I had them as a… as a kid." A hint of panic was inexplicably creeping into her tones, creating little ripples of worry within himself.

Barely paying attention to the turn he was making, House focused on what she said next. "This was different though."

"How?"

Shifting uncomfortably on her seat, Joy finally turned and looked at him. She shrugged. "I don't know. I was okay at first, and then I felt like, like, dizzy and… my heart…" She shook her head. "It was, like, pounding, and I thought 'I'm having a heart attack,' which is _stupid_, I know."

But of course, he knew it _wasn't_ stupid for her to think that. Because there weren't many drugs that had the same red and yellow appearance of Amoxicillin. And the ones that did weren't meant for healthy young women to take with weed, presumably ceremonial wine, and who knew what else. Lescol and Dantrium, among others – they all had their nasty side effects, and she was lucky, he thought, to have suffered so little from such a stupid act.

One of her fingers tracing the outline of her scabbed knee, Joy interrupted his thoughts. "I got up to get some fresh air, and someone helped me onto the balcony," she told him, her voice somehow both filled with and devoid of emotion. Each word uttered as though she'd already thought of the story in her head, it all sounded as though she were trying to distance herself from the act, as though she were trying to convince herself that she was little more than a storyteller.

"I thought he was being nice," she said in a daze. "I thought…" Her voice trailed off once more, her breath hitching in her throat.

And, trying to avoid thinking where this was headed, House instead asked himself why she was doing this. If this were so difficult for her (and it definitely seemed that way), why was she sharing this? Why was she telling him anything at all?

The traitorous answer popping into his head immediately, House understood that really… she had no choice. Because if she'd called him and gotten into his car without a word, he would have badgered her for the truth until he got it. He would have roughly seized the puzzle right in front of him and mercilessly twisted and turned each piece until they gave him a picture of the evening's events that made sense to his mind.

He would have forced the truth out of her, no matter how painful it might have been.

And he would have done the same – or worse – if she'd called Cuddy. Because not only would he be searching for the answer, but at some point, Cuddy would try to protect Joy from him, from his quest. Which would only strain their already strained relationship more. In that case, he would have forced the truth from Joy and damned Cuddy, just as he had before.

And he would have done it without a second thought.

And Joy knew that, it seemed, which meant she really had no choice but to tell him what was going on. Although, he conceded, by offering up the information herself, on her own terms, it was probably easier for her – and smarter in the long run, because she got to cherry pick the details.

Disdainfully she repeated, "I thought he was being nice. But…" A sob escaped her trembling lips, and he could sense in the pit of his stomach what was coming next. Could _feel_ the admission waiting to escape as she said, "But I don't think that anymore."

She started to cry milliseconds later. Not the kinds of tears he was used to – the ones shed for dead pigeons and sick boyfriends and mangled lies unraveling; no, these, he realized, were horrifically different. These cries were loud, sounded as though they were being wrenched painfully from her body.

These were bad… a sign of something bad.

There was something guttural and piercing to the sound, something in her sobs that made his own heart ping in realization. The noise suddenly echoing inside of himself, as well as the car, he didn't need her to say the rest. A million horrible images flashing before him, he could now painfully see what had happened. The details were unknown to him, but…

He _knew_.

All of the pieces fitting neatly together into a single explanation, he could see what she was hiding, could tell what had happened:

Joy had been raped.

Part of him didn't want to believe it, wanted to think that he was making a completely unsupported conclusion.

But… a slave to the truth, to _reason_, House couldn't, despite truly wanting to, give into the denial trying to hold him in its grasp.

He couldn't do it.

And neither could Joy. Tears sliding down her softly curved cheeks, she didn't bother to wipe them away. Focused on finishing the tale he no longer had any interest in hearing, she told him regretfully, "I wanted to go back inside, but… he wouldn't let me."

His gaze abruptly turning to look at her, he began to say, "Joy, you don't –"

"I should have fought him off," she cried, the regret mingling with the already painfully thick air. "I tried – I really did, but I was stupid and…" She sniffled loudly, her broken fingertips nervously scratching at her cheek. "He had a knife, and so I…I_ let_ him…" She didn't finish the thought, shaking her head quickly, the tears falling quicker now. A dull edge to her voice, she finally lamented, "I didn't fight back."

And House could tell then that she was done. Her face buried into the ripped elastic of her tights, the thin material and her even tinier body did little to hide the anguished sounds she was making. Amongst her cries were the words "I'm sorry" being muttered, wailed, sobbed over and over, no amount of fabric and sinew able to silence her overwhelming sense of guilt.

Frozen, House had no idea what to say in response. Still too stunned by what was happening, he drove on in silence, too afraid that, if he paid any less attention to the road, they would crash.

In all honesty, he would have pulled over to the side of the road, had that been an option. But since the highway he was using currently had no shoulders, as the result of construction, he had to keep going. Hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles were white and his aging hands ached, he tried to maintain control over himself.

Because although Joy was wrong in thinking she owed him an apology, she _wasn't_ wrong in thinking he was absolutely livid. Not with _her_, of course, but nonetheless, House could feel the desire to turn the car around, find the ass responsible, and _kill_ him welling up inside of his own body. An instinct he hadn't ever thought possible threatening to claim him now, it was one that made him feel… odd, as though he were just beginning to realize the extent of his feelings for Joy.

It was an instinct he had no intention of giving into.

Rationally, House understood the libel suit was something he could get out of, but murder… he probably wouldn't be so lucky with that. And although conjugal visits with Cuddy did have a nice ring, he was sure she'd refuse to make the trek to prison on principle; after all, she might have been willing to forgive many of his faults, including murdering her daughter's… _rapist _(the word had such a potent tinge in his mind). But somehow House doubted she would be so quick to forgive him for leaving her obviously distraught child in the car while he beat the crap out of a kid less than half his age.

And that meant, whether he was comfortable doing it or not, he had to handle the situation at hand; in other words, he had to take care of Joy… comfort her, he supposed, even though he had no idea what to say or do. And not for the first time since he'd died, House wished Wilson were alive.

He would know what to say.

He would know what to do, _and _he'd make them all the best meal in the world while instructing them.

But as House didn't have the travel-sized Ouija board on him, he realized he would have to do this on his own; he would have to say _something_ to… make her feel better?

No, he thought, that wasn't the way to put it even to himself. Because nothing he said could make Joy feel better, could make any of this right. Which meant, he supposed, that… he could say anything. If nothing was going to make her feel any better, then he might as well say whatever the hell wanted.

Sighing, he said lamely, loud enough so that she would hear him over her tears, "It's not your fault."

She sniffled and looked up. "But I –"

"You took pills. You bastardized a religious ceremony in a way that makes me wish I were young enough to participate," he told her, waving off her objection.

When she didn't say anything – didn't agree or negate what he was saying – House turned his head toward her and gave her a pointed look. "It was stupid," he said simply with no accusation or anger in his tones. "_But…_ you're eighteen –"

"Nineteen," she corrected automatically.

"Whatever. The point is," he drawled out slowly, trying to be sympathetic. "You're young. You're supposed to do stupid things and… wake up with a hangover in the morning and the determination never to do it again. Or at least not do it again any time that week," he told her kindly. "You're nineteen; you're allowed to do dumb things without regret. This… isn't something you deserve or should have experienced."

But if he was trying to be convincing, it was immediately apparent that Joy wasn't convinced at all. Blonde locks whipping through the air as she shook her head, she pointed out dejectedly, "I didn't fight."

"People tend to get their way when they have knives," he told her blithely.

Rubbing her chin on her knees, Joy still wasn't ready to accept what he was saying. "You would have fought."

"Yeah," House replied with a nod. "But, in case you haven't noticed, kid, I get shot, sued, punched, and slapped a lot."

The joke hit home. A watery smile briefly flitting on her face, she couldn't help but chuckle once. The slight ease in the set of her shoulders fleeting, the temporary improvement in her mood didn't last.

Not that he honestly expected it to.

Sighing, House told her, "You made it out alive, which means… you were right. You made the right choice." A weight intentionally added to the words, he said, "You did the right thing."

But only then did he consider that perhaps being right wasn't nearly enough to ease her pain.

**XVIII. Nineteen Years Old**

Cuddy's arm, currently acting as a pillow for her daughter, was beyond asleep. Her hand tucked underneath her own head, she was half-convinced that, by now, the whole appendage had turned blue. The tingling she'd once felt now turning into a finite ache, it was almost enough to make her pull away from her sleeping child.

But not quite.

Because it had _literally_ taken _days_ to get Joy to sleep, and Cuddy wasn't interested in trading Joy's well being for feeling in her own arm. Because she knew that, at best, doing that was an unequal swap. The former's ramifications all the more difficult to deal with than tingling fingers, she stayed quiet, still, content to watch her daughter sleep.

She could do that much for Joy… if not much else, it seemed.

It had been three days.

_Three_ days since Joy had come home, and everything had changed irreparably in a way Cuddy had never imagined or wanted.

God, that was an understatement, she thought.

Permanently gone were the naïve days of "Everything will be okay;" she couldn't say that now, couldn't see how they would ever be able to believe in that again. She couldn't console, couldn't be consoled by House. Three days had passed, and in that time, the only thing that seemed constant was the pain they were all in and the belief that nothing would ever go back to the way it was.

Or maybe that wasn't true; there were other things that seemed to permeate, _poison_ each and every moment of the last seventy-two hours. There were tears, both the ones Joy shed and the ones Cuddy tried to hide from her by letting them fall in the shower or onto House's t-shirt when her daughter wasn't looking.

House, of course, did not cry. If he had, Cuddy wasn't sure how she would have responded, although the phrase, "shocked to death," came to mind. The lack of tears wasn't surprising, as a result of years of knowing that they wouldn't come.

Instead, he had remained… well, stoic wasn't the right word, she thought honestly.

Thanks to _decades_ of screwing him and being screwed over by him (or some combination of that), she knew all too well when he was upset. Try as he might to hide it, there were always signs. In the way, when he looked at her, his bright blue eyes would fill with the anguish she felt to the core of her being, she could tell: he was hurting. The sudden increase in Vicodin and the now nightly walks up and down her hallway that would last for an hour, sometimes longer, were all signs as well… as were the bursts of anger aimed at her that came with it. And, although there were times when she _hadn't_ seen his pain, or had denied it out of petty anger, it was impossible to miss it now; it was impossible _not_ to see that this was affecting him.

Not that he would ever admit to it out loud.

Although, truth be told, given his recent liver function tests, Cuddy wished he would. If only for his health, she wished he would find some other way to deal with his feelings.

Not that she was stupid enough to say _that_ out loud either.

Because he was stubborn, and no matter how much she might have wanted him to, House wasn't ever going to listen to her. And without any hope for change, Cuddy couldn't help but think that maybe it was for the best that he was so… _private_. After all, she didn't need to hear how any of this was affecting him. The tiny spats, the flashes of compassion were all proof that they were both _intensely _affected by what had happened. The edges of their relationship fraying and melding back together seamlessly, the brief instances of emotion between them were more than enough for her.

The way this whole thing made her feel in and of itself was already weighing heavily enough on her.

As was the knowledge that Joy wasn't going to do the rape kit.

In three days, if one thing had become apparent, it was this: that no matter how much they told her she should, Joy wasn't going to budge.

And that fact hadn't been the result of a lack of effort on their part

Cuddy, and House had done this as well, had offered to Joy every possible reason to get the kit done. They had told her it was important to make sure that she was physically all right; it hadn't worked. Not even when Cuddy had caught House trying to scare the hell out of Joy with talk of STDs, HIV, and pregnancy had that changed Joy's mind. Although it definitely _did_ make Cuddy consider whether or not she should leave him alone with her daughter.

But that tense moment aside, for the most part, Cuddy and House had tried to work together, had tried to find a way to convince Joy that this was in her best interest.

They had said that, although she didn't want to talk to the police now, she might change her mind in a week and so it was important to do the rape kit now. But that hadn't worked either, the blonde saying with determination that she would _never_ want to talk to the cops. And considering her mind hadn't changed when Cuddy mentioned other women possibly being put in the exact same situation, it wasn't hard to believe Joy when she said that.

However, that did not necessarily make it easy for Cuddy to give up. Because while she could believe that Joy didn't want to do it, part of Cuddy still hoped that she would change her mind. As silly as it was, part of her desperately wanted to believe that she would wake up the next morning and Joy would come to her and agree that she needed to do this. Because…

It was easier to believe that than to believe she had failed.

But now, with a rape kit inadmissible in court even if Joy _did_ do it, Cuddy was forced to accept that she had.

She had failed.

Two doctors in the house, but they were still unable to convince Joy to do a relatively simple, if uncomfortable, set of procedures.

Sighing Cuddy glanced down at her sleeping daughter. Their bodies were mirroring one another, both on their side with Joy's head nestled into Cuddy's chest. Blonde strands tenderly tucked behind her daughter's ear with Cuddy's maternal hand, it was easy to get lost in Joy's beautiful, petite features.

Years ago, when Joy was truly little, Cuddy had had the time and luxury of memorizing each and every nuance of her face. The long nights created by a teething toddler too miserable to sleep had allowed for that then. But this was the first time in a _very_ long time that Cuddy had the chance to do it once more.

Looking at her now, she could easily see that they weren't anything alike. It had always been something that Cuddy had noticed, though never bitterly so; she'd never wished for the thin veneer of a similar resemblance and in a way preferred cataloging the differences between then. Because, really, she asked herself, how could she _ever_ wish for her daughter to look different when Joy was _so_ beautiful?

Biased or not, Cuddy knew Joy really was gorgeous. Instead of dark locks that permanently threatened into a frizzy mess like she herself had, her daughter had glorious, thick, blonde curls. So pale a color, it was on the verge of looking unnatural, the shade brilliant and stunning. And even now, the waves looked well kempt, every strand neatly curled and away from her face. Which was a _far_ cry from the state of Cuddy's own hair at the moment, which had earned a comparison to Medusa from House only hours earlier.

Needless to say, she'd barely resisted the urge to pick a fight with him then.

And it wasn't just the hair; in every way, Joy was softer, more delicate. She was _so_ tiny for a nineteen-year-old young woman. It was odd, because Cuddy had never considered herself to be _big_, but compared to Joy… she was. As all of her daughter's pajamas were in New York, Joy had had to change into a set of Cuddy's. And although Cuddy was petite, Joy was practically swimming in the off white pants and black sweater she was currently wearing; her small body was _lost_ in all of the fabric. And at the moment, that worked out perfectly, because Joy was clutching part of one of the long sleeves to her face as though it were a security blanket.

She looked like _such_ a little girl.

Her nose and mouth were tinier as well, making her perpetually look as though she were about seven years old. And aiding that youthful appearance were her dark eyes. Rounder and bigger than the ones Cuddy remembered Becca having, Joy didn't just look young but innocent as well.

Which… she _was_.

She _was_ a sweet and innocent little girl.

She'd had one boyfriend in her life, the same boy who had died almost three years ago in Chicago. Beyond that, she'd been too shy, and maybe a little guilt ridden, to date. And it was probably not too much of an exaggeration to say that the most exposure she'd had to anything elicit or involving sex came from House and Cuddy themselves.

Unfortunately.

At least, there was no question in her mind where Joy might have gotten the idea that popping a bunch of pills was okay.

The thought bitter even in her own head, Cuddy couldn't help but let out a frustrated groan then. The noise caused Joy to stir next to her, and Cuddy stilled immediately, hoping that her daughter would simply go back to sleep.

Practically holding her breath, Cuddy tried to tell herself that it wasn't that she blamed House for anything that had happened; it wasn't his fault that Joy had gone to this party, much less been… _attacked_. She knew that much. But…

She couldn't help but feel that they were _so_ messed up as parents – or at least _she_ was, she quickly mentally corrected. House had never agreed to take on the role he had in Joy's life.

But _Cuddy_ had. And part of her could only wonder what bizarre twist of fate had allowed _Joy_ to grow up in her home.

What had Becca seen in Cuddy that made her think Joy would be better off _here_?

The question teased the synapses of her mind not for the first time in nineteen years. Whenever she screwed up, Cuddy found herself wondering the same thing. Why had she been given this _amazing_ human being to care for when she herself realized she was anything but deserving of that privilege?

But, just as it had been for nearly the last two decades, the question had no answer that Cuddy could see. For all of her attempts to understand Becca's motivation, she didn't. She _never_ had, but then Cuddy supposed that she had never really understood the woman who had given Joy life.

They had only spent a few days together, consequently never speaking to one another again, but even in that short time… Cuddy couldn't help but find Becca to be so… different from herself. The blonde hadn't been particularly smart, hadn't held the same intellectual clout that someone like House did when he entered a room. She had been nervous and young and naïve, and Cuddy didn't think she herself had been _any_ of those things at the time. Because while she'd worried Becca would change her mind, the then-soon-to-be mother had known, in her bones, that this was the _right_ thing.

Somehow, as odd as Cuddy believed it was now, she had _known_ the child growing inside of the much younger woman was _her own_. And there had been reassurance in that knowledge, a comfort in it, even if part of her was terrified by it.

But now Cuddy couldn't help but wonder if…

If someone else had raised Joy, if someone else _hadn't_ pushed her to be Jewish or let her hang out with a drug addict – if someone else had been a better parent, would any of this have happened?

Would everything have been different? Was her daughter… destined to be _raped_?

Or had Cuddy's choices, Cuddy's own desperate longing for a child, made this happen?

The answer to that question was not surprisingly lost to her. By now, when it came to whether or not she was doing the right thing for Joy, the mother had come to expect more questions than answers, more doubt than confidence.

"Mom?" Dark lashes lazily parting, her voice husky with sleep, Joy was obviously waking up, her mind slowly drifting into consciousness.

But glancing at the clock on the nightstand, Cuddy quickly figured out that they'd only been in bed for _maybe_ four hours. And considering how long it had taken for Joy to settle down and to finally succumb to exhaustion, she must have been only asleep for two hours maximum. Which might have been an acceptable amount if she were only taking a nap or had kept regular hours previous to this night.

But she hadn't.

And it had taken _so long_ to fully understand why. At first, Cuddy had surmised the sudden insomnia was the result of the medication she'd taken. Looking back at it now, she could easily see how stupid an idea that had been, how foolish it had been to believe that over a more obvious explanation.

Those theories, of course, did eventually come, courtesy of House, who, after calling her an idiot and popping a Vicodin, hadn't been able to resist offering his own explanations. He'd introduced his own theories by saying, "If a lifetime of watching Lifetime has taught me anything…"

And then he had suggested a fear of the dark or closing her eyes, citing a handful of television movies and soap opera storylines. And needless to say, she hadn't been impressed. Although she'd supposed there could be some truth in what he was saying, her response had been much more cynical. "Based on _that_ reasoning," she'd pointed out, "It's also possible that Joy's been possessed by the devil, the next-door neighbor is a witch, and _you_ have a _good_ twin out there somewhere."

They'd shared smirks at the time, but in the end, his own theories had been much closer to the truth than Cuddy's own. No, it wasn't the dark, or the idea of closing her eyes, that bothered the teenager. Instead, as she'd confided to Cuddy eventually, it was the process of falling asleep itself that terrified her.

It was that feeling, she'd explained, a person had when they were so aware of their own exhaustion; they could feel themselves falling asleep, could _feel_ their responses diminishing, their consciousness slipping, and their rate of breathing slowing. And paradoxically, it was that lack of sleep that was making Joy painfully aware of that process each and every time Cuddy had convinced her to lay down.

It was that process that Joy fought, because… it made her feel high.

It made her feel the way she had _that_ night.

So she avoided it as best as she could, refusing to feel that way again.

Not that it mattered. In the end, her body's own needs had won out. But Cuddy had no doubt that they'd be repeating this self-induced sleep deprivation for weeks… maybe months or years to come if things didn't miraculously improve.

And that meant they had to make the most of the sleep Joy _did_ get.

Her daughter still on the cusp of slumber, Cuddy stroked her cheek with the back of her hand. "Shh," she hushed maternally. "I'm here. Go back to sleep."

Joy shook her head lazily, a whimper getting caught in the back of her throat. "Mommy, I –"

"Shh," she repeated gently. The hand not tucked under her head slid across Joy's back. Gently moving her palm around in circles, Cuddy told her, "Just sleep. That's all you have to do right now. Just sleep, sweetheart."

By the time Cuddy's lips made it to Joy's warm forehead, the teenager had fallen back to sleep.

And holding her daughter close, Cuddy realized then that… she could _never_ give this up.

Which meant it didn't matter what Becca might or might not have seen when she gave Joy away. Her reasons might have been good or faulty, but that didn't matter now. Nor did it matter that House had abused Vicodin for all of those years or that Cuddy had refused to celebrate Christmas – and that Joy had been the product of all of those things.

Because to change any of that would mean changing so many wonderful memories and nuances of the relationships Cuddy held most dear. And maybe if she were a less selfish person, she could bear to part with Hanukkah memories and all of those moments in the last nineteen years with House and Joy.

But she _was_ selfish, and there was absolutely _no_ part of her willing to give away any of those things. There was no part of her that was willing to let go. She couldn't give _this_ away.

Because she _was_ Joy's _mother_.

Pulling her daughter closer, Cuddy hoped that that would be enough.

**VIX. Nineteen Years Old **

She'd been lecturing House about proper grocery store etiquette when they'd entered the house. The incident one Cuddy would have easily forgotten if not for what happened after, she'd been telling him how he could _not_ go dump boxes of condoms in a woman's cart simply because she had five screaming, crying children with her.

And for his part, House had been stubbornly refusing to listen to her, sarcastically arguing that he was merely doing his part to keep the world's population under control. Which had made the remarks, "Grow up," and "I can't take you anywhere," easily slide on her tongue.

And frankly, the argument probably could have lasted all day if Joy hadn't interrupted them.

But she had.

With the tears in her eyes and the pregnancy test in her hand, _God_, she _had_.

It had been three months since Joy had come home from school, three _long_ and _painful_ months since things had changed. And although both House and Cuddy had known that she could potentially become pregnant, thanks to their own shortsighted minds that had been so focused on the rape kit and not procuring a high dose of levonorgestrel, they had somehow believed, been convinced actually, that Joy would _not_ end up pregnant.

So thin and small, her body, they'd told one another many times, wouldn't be equipped to deal with pregnancy. And they'd tried to ensure that with giving her the morning after pill anyway.

But, the bright blue positive symbol visible to Cuddy even from this distance, it had been proof:

They were wrong.

Cuddy had dropped the groceries she'd been holding. House, having refused to carry any bags in from the car, had instead immediately rolled his eyes in disbelief. His reaction making Cuddy feel even more surprised, even more out of place, she hadn't even known where to start. Her eyes darting back and forth from him to Joy to the test and back again, she had had _no_ idea what to say.

"Mommy?" Joy had asked nervously.

But shaking her head, she'd been at a loss for words. "I…" She'd angled her whole body then to look at House, hoping he would know what to say.

And House _had_ spoken, but, as Cuddy had known for years, that had never meant he'd be saying the _right_ thing. Which had very quickly become the case in this particular instance. His eyes narrowed on Joy, he'd smirked almost immediately. "Cute, but next time, I think _Mommy_ would prefer those lame little finger paintings you did in kindergarten."

Joy had frowned. "Dr. House…"

"Where'd you get the pee stick, pipsqueak?" he'd asked suddenly.

Both Cuddy and Joy had looked at him strangely then. An odd question even for the bizarre circumstances they'd been finding themselves in for some time, it hadn't made any sense to Cuddy until her daughter had answered. "I… stole it from under the bathroom sink in your bedroom," she'd admitted slowly, guiltily.

House's smirk had widened into a full out grin as Cuddy had sighed with relief. "Thank God," she'd muttered in a low voice.

But not quietly enough, because Joy had looked at them both as though they weren't making _any_ sense. "What are you guys talking about? I took the test." Her eyes filling with tears, she had started to say, "I'm, I'm –"

"How hold you think that is, Cuddy? Fifteen years? Twenty?" he'd asked conversationally, interrupting Joy's confession.

She'd replied in an almost conversational tone, "Probably eighteen," despite realizing that the test Joy had taken had been one Cuddy herself had almost had to take. But as the words had been spoken, there'd been a slight softening in House's gaze, a look of understanding directed towards her, and she hadn't been able to think anything other than that she'd failed to keep that realization to herself.

House hadn't responded right away, giving Joy the opportunity to ask, "There's an expiration date?"

In all honesty, House had looked as though he'd wanted to shove his head through a plate glass window in frustration. "_Yes_," he'd snapped. "The dates are on the box _and_ on all of that foil you had to rip through to _get_ to the test."

Joy had stopped crying, her mood seemingly lightening a little. She'd shaken her head. "But –"

"Pee on a test that old, and it's not gonna be reliable," he'd concluded for her. "If I peed on a test that old, it'd probably say _I_ was pregnant. Hell," he'd added particularly bitingly, pointing at Cuddy, "It's so old, it'd probably say _Mommy's_ barren womb had a kid taking up residence."

"You watch your mouth," Cuddy had snapped warningly. As much of House as she could take at any given time, she had _long_ since realized – and there was no doubt that he must have as well – that there were still going to be times when he pushed her to the limit. It was in his blood, something he compulsively had to do… like a puppy nipping at his siblings to know what hurt.

And while she could forgive him, could learn to deal with it, Cuddy had also _long_ embraced her right to snap back as hard as necessary to show him that he'd crossed a line. And frankly, after the very, very long trip to the grocery store, and now this, she'd reached the end of her rope… not that her infertility was _ever_ a topic she allowed him to dwell on.

The dark look in her eyes aimed at him had only served to reinforce the warning in her tones.

The words had largely been unspoken, but just seeing the way his own gaze had changed slightly had been proof enough: he'd gotten the message. His mood shifting, calming a little, he'd turned his attention back to Joy. "The chances of you actually being pregnant are –"

"Very slim," Cuddy had offered in an attempt to console as she'd stepped over the forgotten grocery bags and moved toward her daughter. "You're so small, sweetheart. You'd probably have to gain a good bit of weight before –"

"Probably isn't the same thing as definitely," Joy had said, a sad quality to her voice.

"Joy, unless something has changed since we last talked about this, you've never had regular menstrual –"

House had interrupted, letting out a pained sound that Cuddy had assumed had everything to do with his distaste for the fact that Joy was, actually, a young woman. But instead, he'd scowled, "I can't believe you're a _doctor_ and just said that. Granted, your favorite activity is forcing _me_ to give all the pelvics in the clinic," he'd conceded bitterly. "But even _you_ should know that you can get pregnant without perfectly timed cycles."

This time Cuddy had been the one to scowl. "I _do_ know that," she'd said through gritted teeth. "My _point_ was that, as _not_ having a period isn't _uncommon_, we shouldn't assume –"

Her arms pulling her daughter into a hug, it still hadn't been enough to stop her from interrupting very quietly, "I think I should take another test anyway."

There'd been a firmness there that neither House nor Cuddy had any intention of fighting against. Especially considering that, at that moment, their own beliefs that she wasn't pregnant had largely been based on the desire that she not be pregnant, they had no ground to stand on.

They had to do what she'd wanted.

And House had seemed to accept this first, nodding his head before turning and leaving. The sound of his motorcycle roaring out of her driveway, it had made Joy look up and ask, "Do you think he's getting the test or…" Her voice had been tentative, as she'd finished the rest. "Is he… you know, leaving?"

Cuddy had shaken her head no. "Dr. House is like vermin; he's not leaving as long as he gets free food." Kissing Joy's forehead tenderly, Cuddy had told her confidently, "Don't worry. He's getting the test."

Granted… there was a good chance that he'd stop at a bar for a drink before coming back, she'd realized at the time. And there was an even larger chance that he'd take the time to schedule an appointment for an abortion prematurely while he was out.

But with all of that said, there'd been _no_ doubt in her mind that he'd be back. She'd been smugly sure of that.

That sense of correctness, of _knowing_ the world around her, however, hadn't lasted.

Now, two hours later, with a shaking daughter in her arms, Cuddy couldn't help but see:

She'd been right about House but _so wrong_ about Joy.

The test sitting on the floor in front of them, it was now a 99.9% certainty that Joy was pregnant.

Pregnant by that… that… that _animal_ who had raped her.

That knowledge weighed heavily on her, her body leaning against House. He was sitting on the toilet seat behind her, one of his hands rubbing his thigh, the other uncharacteristically delicately touching her neck. He'd never quite learned to be… _tender_, for lack of a better word. And instead of fingers gently carding through her hair or rubbing her cheek, Cuddy got this ticklish touch that made her want to squirm away.

Her forehead resting against his knee, however, she didn't move.

She couldn't.

Her nineteen-year-old daughter, who should have been in school having the time of her life, was pregnant. And although there would be a time when they would _all_ have to get up, have to accept what was happening, right now, Cuddy was content to have him here at all. She was also complacent with giving into, repeating, the lies she needed to believe.

Her arms holding Joy tightly, she lied. She said it would be okay, even though she was sure now that it could never be. Because, in the back of her mind, Cuddy couldn't help but think that even if Joy had an abortion, that wouldn't make things right. That wouldn't make any of this disappear, even though House would surely, by tonight, once the shock wore off, try to convince them all of that.

He would lie then, would pretend that things could be okay, but she was doing that now. The words flowing through her so easily, her mind wandered separately. And as she reassured Joy, Cuddy couldn't help but remember all of the instances where she had been in this exact same bathroom wishing for one of those stupid tests to be positive.

She had spent thousands of dollars, hundreds of minutes in the hopes of getting that result. In this very same room, twenty years ago, she would have given _anything_, sacrificed everything she had, for a positive response.

Now they had that plus symbol in the results window.

And Cuddy would have done anything and everything to take it back.

**XX. Too young for this**

"Can we kill it already?" House whined obnoxiously, the cherry lollipop nestled in the space between his cheek and teeth.

He was sitting on the far right end of the couch with Joy, watching some lame movie he'd never seen before. His legs stretched out in front of him, his feet were propped up on Cuddy's coffee table, despite the fact that he knew she _hated_ it when he did that. Actually, he considered at that moment, he was probably doing it _because_ she hated it.

Of course, even if she walked into the house right now, she wouldn't be pissed. He knew that much. Because what with Joy curled up at his side, her head resting on his good thigh, Cuddy would be too _pleased_ to care.

As though he could say the same, House thought bitterly.

He liked Joy, maybe even loved her, but he had pretty much resigned himself, and not begrudgingly so, to never being comfortable with showing it. And all of her life, Joy had accepted that fact. But now, with baby hormones and all of that crap, she was clingy and affectionate, and really, if it weren't for the constant cravings for sugar and other unhealthy crap that Cuddy was all too eager to oblige, he would have cut his losses and limped away.

Her own lollipop stick lightly digging into his thigh, Joy said dryly, "That's direct."

"It's been two months," he pointed out. "I've run out of ways of saying it nicely."

"You were being nice about it before?" she asked, the playfulness they'd long since thought forgotten slowly creeping into her voice.

He didn't answer the question, instead diverting her attention by offering sardonically, "I _did_ contemplate getting, 'Joy, abort your rape baby,' written in skywriting, but… I prefer the more direct approach." A false smile on his face that she couldn't see, he told her cheerily, "But hey, that's just me."

"'Rape baby,' _Daddy_?" Joy asked, the title he had never been comfortable with emphasized just for him.

"Hey!" He bristled at the name and chomped down loudly on the cherry lollipop in his mouth. "No name calling," he commanded, chewing the rest of the candy.

She grumbled, "You started it," her hand nevertheless digging in the plastic bag propped against her swollen belly for another red lollipop.

Taking the proffered piece of candy, he nodded his head. "Yeah," he agreed quietly.

They fell into silence then, both of their gazes aimed at the television. Of course whether Joy was actually paying attention to the movie playing was a different matter; after all, it wasn't like House had any idea what was going on.

Thanks to the news from eight weeks ago, he found his attention usually on one thing and one thing only: this pregnancy. This horribly doomed pregnancy that could _not_ possibly go well. If there were one thing he was truly convinced of, it was that.

This could not end well.

"There's no turning back," he told her quietly. "You have this kid, and you're stuck with –"

Joy sighed loudly, giving him pause. Rolling onto her back with effort, she glanced up at him. "That's kind of the point," she interrupted. "I mean it wasn't exactly my goal to just be the incubator in this equation."

"What, not going to follow in your _other_ Mommy's footsteps?" he asked sarcastically, pretending to be surprised.

She rolled her eyes. "What's your point, Dr. House?"

"My point is right now you've got tons of hormones whose names I can't pronounce coursing through your veins." His eyes softening as he peered down on her, he told her, "It's like… nature's evolutionary heroin telling you that you should do this, but –"

"Yeah, the voices are telling me to do it," she replied, her own sarcasm clearly evident.

He sighed. "You're not crazy. You just… haven't thought this through."

"What do you think's going to happen?" she asked in confusion. "Do you think it's gonna be like, 'Here comes the head,' and I'm going to suddenly realize I don't want to do this?"

"I think there's a really big difference between getting a little chunky and raising a kid who is the product of the worst night of your life." He sounded serious, sincere even to his own ears. But still not entirely comfortable with the idea that Joy might know how much he cared, he turned his gaze to the unwrapped lollipop in his hands.

"Dr. House, I _know_ that it'll be hard," she told him, sounding exasperated. "I _know_ that it will be different than anything I've done before. _But_," she drawled out slowly. "I also know that… having an abortion isn't going to change what's happened. I'm not going to feel any better about being raped," Joy said harshly, "by killing the child growing inside of me." Turning back toward the television, she was much quieter when she spoke up again. "I can't do that. It's not right."

House rolled his eyes in response. "Channeling Jerry Falwell now, are we?"

"I don't know who that is." She was clearly trying to be patient with him, but the way she snatched the plastic wrapping off of her own lemon-flavored lollipop said she was teetering on the edge of being absolutely fed up.

"Doesn't matter. My point is you're acting like this is something you _have_ to do." Taking a long pull on the candy in his hand, he added disdainfully, "You act like _God's_ gonna stick a lightning bolt in your ass if you have a _medical_ procedure performed."

"Okay, well, setting aside the fact that I've _never_ said anything like that," she said snottily, "I think _that's_ probably a little better than letting you _badger_ me into this abortion."

"I'm not –"

"Right, you're giving me a _choice_." Her voice was filled with a doubt he didn't like to hear. "As long as it's what you want, you're all for it. How shocking."

He shifted on the couch as best as anyone could with one bad thigh and another acting as a pillow. Sounding as though he were beginning to feel contrite, House replied, "You make it sound like that's a bad thing or something."

"I know I have a choice," she told him calmly. Her pregnant body laboriously turning over to face him, her back to the television, she was firm when she said, "But I'm not going to have an abortion. And I'm definitely _not_ going to change my mind, because you hate new people."

"Well now you're just being unfair," he criticized. "I'm not a fan of people in general, new or otherwise."

"Dr. House…"

"All right, fine," House conceded hastily. "My reasons might not be honorable – I admit it. But you're not _really_ gonna try and tell me you _haven't_ thought about what happens if you give birth to the kid and, for whatever reason, can't bond with it?"

"No." Her voice was firm, and, given what she'd been through, he couldn't believe her. Visibly bristling at her response, he wasn't surprised when Joy repeated, "No. I haven't thought of that, because, even though I'm… nervous about what's going to happen – scared or whatever – I _know_ I'm doing the right thing. And I _know_ I can do it, so… I haven't thought about that at all."

She sounded honest, but it wasn't enough to convince him. "Uh huh," he replied in disbelief. And then, not waiting for her to defend herself, he said more cheerily, "Then lets go down that road together, shall we?"

He didn't give her a chance to say no.

"You crap the kid out; they clean it up, whatever. You're tired from having your loins stretched and pulled in ways that's going to make your mother _incredibly_ happy she adopted you."

Joy smiled and pushed a strand of hair out of her face.

"You'll be too tired to really care one way or the other what's going on around you, anyway," House continued. "And Cuddy's Type A enough to take over Mommy duties, even if that's not what you really want."

"But I _would_ want her help."

"Whatever," House said, dismissing the thought. "Point is, it'll be a few days before you really figure out what's going on, before you realize whether or not you can handle raising this kid."

She began to protest, "I already said I –"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know what you _said_. Doesn't mean when you're actually faced with it, it'll happen."

Joy shook her head, the friction against his jeans making his thigh warm. Her dark eyes narrowing on him, she argued, "You just don't want to believe that I can do this."

"Not true," he said frustrated. "You pop the kid out and decide you love it and it's the bestest little baby in the whole world? Wonderful." His head cocked to the side, House couldn't help but add, "You'll be guilty of cruelty, of course – forcing me to deal with three generations of Cuddys. But _wonderful_."

Her response was a dry "Yeah, you sound real pleased about that."

"I can… deal with it," he said not entirely confident. As an afterthought, he mentioned casually, "Mommy's funbags are _more_ than enough to keep me around."

"Oh _gross_," Joy groused, burying her face into his stomach in disgust. Her voice became high-pitched and whiny. "Why do you have to say such _nasty_ things?"

"Because, after nineteen years of messing with you, it's the only thing I can talk about that still shocks you," he explained easily.

"Still," she protested. "You want me to barf all these lollipops back up? Cause that's what's going to happen if you keep talking like that."

He patted her head in a half-assed manner. "Don't worry about the happy ending," he instructed, changing the topic at hand abruptly.

"Then what would you like me to worry about exactly?"

"What happens if you _don't_ bond with the kid? If you _can't_ look at it without seeing what happened to you?"

She shook her head again. "That won't –"

"Just shut up and play along, all right?" He could feel her jaw clenching, could feel his own mimicking the behavior. And once satisfied that she wouldn't interrupt again, he explained quietly, "That happens, there are only a couple roads to go down. One, we all pretend like resenting your kid for reasons it has no control over is something you can get over easily."

House wasn't sure why he thought of his father then. There had been resentment in the relationship, yes. _Obviously_ yes. But it was a completely different situation. Even though he'd never been sure whether his father had refused to talk to him that summer because both men had discovered the truth or because his father couldn't accept being told that his son didn't see him as his father anymore, House knew it was different. The mutual antipathy towards one another had always been well founded, DNA results irrelevant by comparison. His father's own dependence on the rules completely at odds with House's own disregard for them, there had never been any question in his mind why they fought with one another so much.

And yet House had thought of the man long since dead anyway.

"Dr. House?" Joy asked with concern.

He shook his head, physically trying to clear the thoughts from his mind. "We both know that's not going to work. You'll be pissed at the kid. Your mother, who's practically done everything she can to _have_ a child, will be pissed at you, even if she doesn't want to be. I'll be pissed at you _both_ for ruining a… relatively good thing, and then you'll hate me for eventually telling the demon spawn what you feel."

She lightly jabbed him in the stomach with her fist. "My child isn't demon spawn, you –"

"So this is what happens, kid," he said, cutting her off. "Nobody's happy, and you'll have to make a choice: either learn to live with the brat or give it up for adoption, and just so we're clear," House warned seriously. "Your mom would never be able to live with the second."

"Yeah, cause she's _so_ against adoption."

"Lets not pretend that there's no difference between that and this, okay?" he asked testily.

Joy sighed. "All you're telling me is that, if I have my baby, I'll have to raise and love him or her." Her eyes narrowing on him, she said seriously, "But that's what I've been planning on doing all along."

"And if things don't go according to plan?"

The question hung in the air for a long time. His gaze settling on the television for a bit, he was more than willing to wait her out. But what it was that he hoped she would say, he didn't know; at that point, he wasn't sure what he preferred from her: another round of this ridiculous fight or an admittance on her part that he was right. Somehow House was absolutely sure that all roads led to more misery for all of them. So sure, in fact, that he thought he shouldn't have been surprised that Joy's response was neither fighting _or_ acceptance but rather a tear-filled silence that immediately caught his attention.

Her sniffles were probably quiet enough to go unnoticed, a shoot out in the movie easily covering the sound. But the wet tears sliding down her cheeks and onto his pants weren't so easily hidden; the fabric of his jeans well worn, it was hardly any barrier, and the moment Joy started crying, he knew. He could feel it.

When he looked down at her in reaction, she asked, "Why are you doing this? Why are you _so_ convinced that I'll be horrible at this?" Her hand angrily clutching her yellow lollipop, Joy said, "I've done _everything_ you and Mommy said I had to do to keep the baby healthy. I've gained _forty_ pounds so far. I eat everything you tell me to. I sleep even though it scares me and I don't want to," she pointed out, clearly trying to force him to admit that she was more ready to do this than he liked to think. "Therapy three times a week. Art therapy on Sunday afternoons. _Why_," she demanded furiously, "is _none_ of that enough for you?"

Her anger stunned him into silence.

She had never been a particularly fiery child, her disposition generally an even-keeled one. Especially considering all the time she spent with Cuddy and House himself, he thought she'd grown into a fairly normal, _sweet_ girl.

Which made this outburst even more surprising.

He shrugged his shoulders in response, the "I don't know" slipping out before he could stop it. Before he could even realize just how… _untrue_ the whole thing was.

And it _was_ untrue. The reason so obvious, even to himself, it was impossible to believe that she didn't know it as well: he cared about her, maybe even _worried_ about her well being in the same way he'd come to do with Cuddy.

He supposed that… he should just accept that fact and move on; nearly twenty years later, he realized that it wasn't useful to be this _disturbed_ by the way their three lives intersected with one another. After all this time, he shouldn't constantly find his gaze down at his own feet, find himself wondering how the hell he ended up on this particular path.

But for whatever reason, he did.

Perhaps it was because he had no idea what he had done to earn such… loyalty from either woman that made him feel this way. Made him feel as though he were absolutely out of place, at least. But House had a feeling that what intrigued him more than anything was that he was _this_ insinuated in Cuddy and Joy's life at all. Because… he hadn't planned on this.

_Any_ of this.

All he'd ever hoped to do was annoy Cuddy out of the adoption, to be honest. Or if he'd fallen short of that, his goal had been to keep Cuddy right where he wanted her: ready to sign off on a dangerous procedure, or at least argue with him about it, with her ass in a tight skirt and cleavage neatly displayed.

Hell, he thought with a mental eye roll; even then, when he hadn't been seriously thinking of Cuddy in any romantic way, he'd wanted her. Or rather, he'd wanted to keep her available should he have gotten drunk and desperate enough one night. Which had been nothing short of unfair, he realized, especially when he considered that, in the end, he'd gotten her anyway.

But that had been the plan… the plan that had failed. Or succeeded, depending on how you looked at it, he guessed. Joy had stayed obviously, and Cuddy's role in his life had dramatically changed, as he had feared. But what Joy's presence in his life had ended up meaning, what that change in his relationship with Cuddy had meant…

House had never anticipated that any of those ramifications could be good. At the time, when Cuddy had first announced that she was going to adopt, he'd seen the bad things. He'd seen the throw up on the clothes and the time taken away from work. He'd seen the screaming kid and all of the stress that went with that.

He'd seen most of the bad things, but…

He hadn't seen any of the good.

And it made House wonder then if maybe he were doing the same with this. So much so that he was taken off guard when Joy spoke again. Her voice was firm. "I know you don't understand why I have to do this, Dr. House. But I _do_ need to have this baby. I just…"

Her voice trailed off as she seemingly tried to think of what she wanted to say. Curious about her reasons, he stayed silent, sucking on his lollipop quietly. His eyes never leaving her, he watched her carefully, taking in each subtle change of her appearance – the way the top set of her teeth nibbled at her lower lip, the way her eyelashes fluttered shut, as she worked to find the right words.

"I need to know that things can be okay… good again," she eventually said, nodding her head as though she were sure. "I need to know that I didn't go through… _that_ for no reason."

"You need to feel like you're being tested?" House offered, disdain buried in the back of his throat.

"No." Her forehead wrinkled in confusion as though she were considering what he was saying. She repeated herself. "No. I don't think I'm being tested. I just… need to know that everything happened for a reason. That the… universe or whatever isn't indifferent to –"

"It _is_ indifferent," he argued, his voice hardening. "I get that you want there to be a reason. But…" He paused for dramatic effect and then slowly told her, "Sometimes there just _isn't_." He tried to sound gentler than he had moments before, but he was sure that he had failed. "People are born, murdered, married, _raped_ every day. There's no reason for it. And nobody cares about any of it except the people who love you. A baby isn't going to change that fact."

"Fine," she conceded in annoyance after a moment of consideration. "I put it badly, I guess. And maybe you're right. Maybe… the rest of the world is indifferent to me. I don't know." The frown on her face became more pronounced for a minute before the muscles around her lips relaxed. "But I _do_ know that a baby would change everything for me. I _do_ know that if… I could have this baby in my life, if I could love him or her, then I could believe that there _was_ some goodness and _happiness_ left for me." Much quieter, Joy added, "I could believe things could get better."

Holding a hand abruptly to stop him from interrupting with the sarcastic comment he easily thought of, Joy said irritably, "I _know_ it's not a guarantee, so you don't need to list your favorite made-for-television movies to convince me of anything."

She looked up at him then, a calmness on her face, a serenity radiating from her that he didn't think she possessed. "But this is a risk I have to take. Not because God or anyone else is telling me to. But because I _want_ to. And I thought," she started to say sadly, the words coming out slow, "that if anyone could understand the importance of risking something in order for results or to gain something, it would be _you_."

The comment hit home, because almost immediately, unbidden, all the times he had broken the rules for a test, a diagnosis, an _answer_ flooded his mind. Images, one right after the other, played like a movie on an old-fashioned projector, his memory traitorously bringing up one instance after another in an endless loop.

And in that moment, feeling almost as though he were looking at his own life from an outside perspective, he could see _finally_ all of the reasons Cuddy had been yelling at him all these years. Before he had only vaguely noted that what he'd been doing at the time was wrong or crossing some line. Before he'd been too intent in his quest to care about anything else.

But _now_, he could see just what Cuddy had been so up in arms over. Not that he planned on changing anything about the way he treated his patients, but… in a way, he could finally understand where she was coming from…

And he thought he could finally understand Joy's motivation as well.

As much as part of him wished he would keep fighting her, another part of House was resigned to this: she wanted this baby, and she was going to have it. And even though he couldn't, _wouldn't_ deny what was at risk, House could now begin to see… that she thought the risk was worth it. And there would be no talking Joy out of it.

Sighing, he traced an eyebrow with his thumb. "That was a good line," he told her lazily. "Talking about risk. You make me feel like I'm your mother telling you to be cautious."

Joy gave him a cautious smile but said nothing in response.

"Well," he drawled out slowly. "Just so we're clear – I'm not going to get up in the middle of the night when it cries. And if it pees on me," he warned darkly, "I'm not promising I won't sell it to someone even more desperate for a baby than your mother was."

The threat fell short of causing any real terror. A wide smile appearing on her face, Joy looked as though she wanted to hug him as hard as she could. His own body tensing at the possibility, a hand protectively, instinctively, headed towards his thigh. Because, should she decide to pounce on him, his leg would need all the guarding it could have.

But she didn't hug him. Instead, as she rolled over, she said, "Thank you, Dr. House." Her voice sincere, she didn't have to say any more; he could tell she was happy.

She reached behind herself then, her swollen hands groping for the lollipop bag now stuck between her body and the couch. Unceremoniously handing him the bag, she asked him, "Finish these, will you? They're making me want to throw up."

He didn't need to be asked twice, his greedy fingers eagerly rummaging for another cherry-flavored one, as she settled down next to him.

But given that Joy and House had been eating the candy all day, finding another red one was easier said than done. Because although Joy only wanted the lemon ones, he'd only asked for the cherries. And that meant he had to dig through the super-sized plastic bag for another cherry.

Granted, if worse came to worse, House _would_ consider lowering his standards for an orange or lime-flavored one. But he was _not_ going to settle for a horse if there were a glossy red zebra somewhere in the bag to be found.

Five minutes later, as his patience strained under his growing irritation over not finding what he wanted, House _finally_ found one. The saccharine sweet taste of victory short, he'd barely had one good lick before realizing…

The kid was sleeping.

_On_ _him_.

Her body curled into his side, her head was still resting on his lap. And that meant that despite the fact that his body was thrumming on sugar and the desire to move, he couldn't. _Wouldn't_ be able to, he thought bitterly, nearly choking on his lollipop.

_Great_.

This was just _great_.

He couldn't wake her up, he realized immediately. Cuddy would _literally_ rip his balls off – of that he had no doubt. Because she'd already been acting like a sleep Nazi, enforcing slumber with an iron fist. Lights out at a certain hour; no noise when Joy was sleeping; no, no, _no_ waking her up unless the house were on fire… the unspoken rules listing themselves in his mind, he thought to himself that, unless he wanted to deal with the laxatives-Vicodin switch _again_, he'd just have to deal with Joy on his lap.

Not like it would have been an _easy_ task to slide the hippopotamus off of him anyway. More than likely, that would have stopped his old heart.

And unwilling to wake her up or _die_, he miserably had to sit there, watching the television and eating lollipops. Which might not have been so bad, he realized, if it didn't also make him a target for Cuddy's deranged looks and sentimentality.

Case in point, the moment she walked in the door and saw them, she looked as though she were on the verge of tears. Despite praying that Joy would wake up before then, he had failed, was forced to sit there and watch Cuddy react.

It took a second, but it _did_ happen. A huge grin split her thinning lips. A certain glow spread across her features, and she almost immediately began to look at them as though they were _daddy_ and _daughter_ _snuggling_.

Cuddy tried to cover for it with a sarcastic "Well, at least you aren't chasing her around with a wire coat hanger and a vacuum." But she'd already made her sickly sweet feelings known.

Calmly, gruffly, House said, "Please tell me that psychotic look on your face means you have a chainsaw behind your back and you're not afraid to use it."

Quietly setting her briefcase on the vacant chair that House _wished_ he were sitting in right about now, she tried to hide her smile to no avail. But when she leaned down to kiss him, he could feel the upturn of her lips against his scowl. And then in a near whisper, she taunted, "I used to think that you spent all your time here because you liked my ass. But now…"

Her voice trailed off as she kissed him again, one of her hands running through what little was left of his hair. Her eyes bright with an impishness he was sure would make him groan, she teased, "_Now_, I'm beginning to think you actually _like_ this." Her hand waved around loosely in the air, gesturing towards Joy's head on his lap.

"_I_ think you're just underestimating my appreciation for your ass," House quipped easily as she pulled away.

"Maybe." Conceding, she headed towards the kitchen. But the tone of her voice was telling, said she didn't believe him at all.

A second passed before he thought with a sigh…

He didn't believe himself either.


	5. Chapter 5

_The doors to the NICU hissed shut behind her, the noise too quiet to wake any of the sleeping babies. The sound too low, too unobtrusive, it did little to silence the voice inside of her fighting to be heard. _

_She was being punished, it shouted, argued loudly inside of her head. _

_A part of her so powerful that Cuddy couldn't ignore it, she couldn't stop herself from thinking: _

_She had dared to love her own child, _her_ baby openly and freely. _

_And she was being_ punished_ for it. _

_Damned for it by a woman who had had thirty-eight weeks to bond with the child growing inside of her and _hadn't_. By a woman who would have no sooner _killed_ that same baby in order to save herself, Cuddy thought savagely. _

_Her pain and anger roiling inside of her own body, the emotions mingled together and easily tore down the relaxed façade she was desperately in need of donning. The potent poison infiltrating every cell of her being, it was impossible to appear calm, impossible to pretend that things were anything but horrible, unimaginably unacceptable and wrong. _

_So too was it impossible to stop the shaking in her hands, the teetering, tentative steps in her heels, and the choking sobs, coupled with tears, in the back of her throat. And with her normally composed features betraying her, it was likewise impossible to stop her staff from looking at her. _

_The moment she'd entered the NICU could feel it. Their silent questioning glances clinging to her in a way that even her clothing dared not, not even her pain could make her ignorant to _that_. _

_But she pretended not to notice, her eyes solely on the group of babies in the room. _

_Moving towards the rows of bassinettes, Cuddy couldn't fight the emotions quickly overtaking her body. She'd made it a rule in her life never to cry at work, but there was no denying this, no denying the poignant ache inside of her._

_And part of her, the punishing masochist who always argued that House was a good employee, that being number two in her class wasn't good enough, that pushing and _pushing_ herself beyond the normal limits was what she _must_ do – _that_ part of her whispered that the pain she was feeling was good. Because it meant that…_

_She had, with every fiber of her being, wanted this. _

_She had been scared, yes, afraid of what might happen, terrified that she wouldn't have been able to be the mother Joy deserved. _

_But _God_, she had _wanted_ this baby more anything in the world. _

_Cuddy had no doubts about that, which frankly seemed like an accomplishment considering everything she'd heard to the contrary. From her mother to the adoption counselor to her lawyer, they'd all cautioned her in sympathetic voices that it might take time to bond. Their words constantly reminding her in almost pitiful tones that she wouldn't share DNA with her son or daughter, Cuddy couldn't help but think it was only a slightly nicer way of saying what House had been arguing all along: that an adopted baby really was a factory second, a discard. _

_On shaky legs, Cuddy closed the distance between her daughter and herself. A smile instinctively on her face as she peered down at the infant slowly waking, Cuddy could only believe that Joy was anything _but_ a hand-me-down. Because, even if they had never shared any DNA, even if they'd ended up looking and acting completely different, Joy alone would have been more than enough. That truly unconditional love Cuddy had felt inside of her marrow the moment she had seen her baby come into this world would have been all she'd needed. The bond between them wound tightly together, each strand of that invisible thread inseparable from the ones nestled against it, there was _nothing_ that Cuddy would have wanted to change about Joy._

_There were no imperfections, nothing that she could point to that needed to be changed. If anything, looking at the sweetly plump infant, Cuddy could see that she couldn't have done a better job on her own; nothing from her own womb could have filled her with more love or anything else. _

_But…_

_A traitorous voice inside of her abruptly filtered the doubt into her consciousness_

_But._

_If she'd shared DNA with Joy…_

_Cuddy couldn't finish the thought, a cry catching awkwardly on her vocal chords in the back of her throat. The choked sounds inaudible to the rest of the NICU staff, it was just loud enough for her baby less than a foot in front of her to hear. _

_Joy's bright blue eyes slowly opened in response. Within seconds, the little girl instinctively began to look around, and Cuddy couldn't help but give her a watery smile._

_Rationally, she understood that, at this point in her development, Joy wouldn't be all that interested in the smile created just for her. Cuddy's lipstick was a pale shade of a pink, a nude color that would be anything but enticing to a newborn who was far more interested in contrast and vibrancy than muted elegance._

_Of course, regardless of the color, mother and daughter were close to one another, but their faces were still more than a foot apart when it came down to it. Which meant that even if she were wearing lipstick as red as roses, Joy would only see a blurred version of it._

_Realizing that, Cuddy felt the need to be closer, felt the need to give her child a better picture of what she looked like, as though in doing so, Joy would never forget her. Leaning on the waist-high partition between her body and the bassinette, Cuddy got closer, an elbow giving her leverage as she leaned forward to close the distance between them. _

_In truth, she realized that they could be closer; she could have just held Joy if she'd wanted. But, given that everyone in the hospital must have known what was going on by now, Cuddy didn't feel like calling any more attention to herself. _

_More than that though…_

_Cuddy couldn't do it, couldn't hold her daughter while knowing… what _had_ to happen._

_Already, she could feel her mind and heart rebel against the reality that was slowly closing in on her. Things hadn't completely changed yet; she could still get away with calling Joy her daughter and thinking it, but things _would_ change. Holding the infant would just make accepting that impossible. _

_Not that by _not_ holding the little girl made things any easier, because even from this small distance, Cuddy feel that bond tugging on her. Because, they weren't touching, but the second Joy's eyes settled on her form, Cuddy could _feel_ her own maternal love rush through her. _

_In the back of her mind, she was a little more than aware that she'd fixed the game in getting Joy's attention. Compared to the muted colors of the NICU, Cuddy's bold navy suit and white top, as well as her dark hair and pale skin, made her much more fascinating. And given that Joy's sleepy eyes were lazily fixed on Cuddy's chest, where her alabaster skin, dark suit jacket, and stark white top met, Cuddy was sure this wasn't really all that personal. _

_Which was fine; she was used to a _child_ staring at her breasts, and at least Joy's reasons were a lot less lascivious than House's. The comparison easing the ache inside Cuddy briefly, she instinctively thought with a smirk that House would have grown to like Joy – their interests at this point in time exactly the same. _

_And it was at that moment that what little protection she had created for herself crumbled. An armor made out of little more than dust, it had allowed her to escape Becca's presence, had allowed Cuddy to walk the corridors of the hospital as though her heart was not being frayed, torn, _broken_, by losing Joy. But her armor could not withstand anymore. _

_She could no longer hold off the agony she was feeling. _

_Because the mere mention of House never ceased to remind her of things, both good and bad, he'd said in the past. A litany of memories associated with the name, it was something she had never been able to stop herself from doing; whether she liked it or not, appreciated it or not, he'd been a part of her life for years. Why she believed those associations should have the decency to stop now, she didn't know. _

_The reason didn't really matter now. _

_All that concerned her was the fact that just thinking about him with Joy now had reminded her of something he'd said years ago – interestingly _not_ the comments about how Becca would change her mind or how Cuddy would suck as a mother or how she was _miserable_. But rather it was what he'd said after Alfredo had fallen off of the roof._

_House had said that she didn't see the chasm. _

_And only now could she see, could she _admit_, that he'd been _right_. She _hadn't_ seen it. _

_But now it was so easy to see the painfully garish divide. It was the difference between the way things would have been and the way things were and were going to be. It was the difference between knowing that House could have… changed, come to appreciate another human being in his life – even if he hadn't intended to do so – and now being allowed to cling to Wilson and Cuddy without any chance of widening his world or his heart. It was the difference between having a friend who would do anything to help you and only _being_ that kind of friend. _

_It was the difference between having the capacity for love and knowing that that love would now never be lavished on another human being. It was the difference between knowing in your heart that the DNA didn't matter _at all_ and being forced to recognize now that it was all that mattered to everyone else. _

_It was the difference between having a daughter and having _had_ a daughter. _

_It was the difference between being a mother and not. _

_A stubborn tear slid past the insufficient barricade of her dark eyelashes, her mind wondering why she hadn't seen the truth for what it was before. It seemed so obvious now that, in every aspect of her life, there was a Grand Canyon's worth of failed attempts and dreams, of fears and things that could never be. _

_The depth of the divide was miles long, literally a dark abyss that she dared not gaze into for fear of being sucked in without escape. _

_And yet the width of the fissure was small enough that she could gaze to the other side, what could have been dangling right in front of her enticingly. And instinctively, Cuddy reached for Joy then. Her hand easily bridging the distance, Cuddy smiled sadly as the little girl grabbed a hold of Cuddy's index finger. _

_Joy's palm was warm against her skin. The delicate touch tentative at best, the baby's fingers threatened to uncurl from exhaustion at any moment, but it was more than enough for Cuddy. Because any more, and frankly, she would not have had the strength to walk away. _

_As it was, she wasn't sure she could do that – turn around and leave, pretending that she could ever be content with her daughter being raised by someone else. By someone who hadn't even wanted her in the first place._

_Knowing _that_, Cuddy knew that there was not a single cell – no lone _atom_ inside of her body that wanted to walk away from this, from her daughter. Every protein and neuron, every lipid and hormone desired to keep Joy, to _stay_ her mother by fighting this. And gently stroking the infant's hand now, Cuddy could _feel_ her own body tensing, preparing for battle. _

_But rationally she knew:_

_Every fight she picked in this, she would lose. _

_If she hadn't believed it before, conversations with multiple lawyers, including Stacy, had forced her to accept:_

_Becca would win. _

_No matter what._

_It didn't matter that Cuddy had money to give this child anything and everything. It didn't matter that she knew there was _nothing_ Joy could have done that Cuddy would have hated her for, no road her daughter could have traveled that she wouldn't have willingly walked on as well. _

_It didn't matter that Becca would have died at home with Joy in her womb, the woman unable to see that something was medically wrong. It didn't matter that she had gone on to endanger Joy even more by putting her daughter's life second. _

_It didn't matter that she had _said_, "She's yours now" or that there had been a _promise_ made._

_Which sounded juvenile, even to Cuddy's furious mind. Because "you promised" was the kind of excuse little children made when their parents screwed up or the kind she sometimes found herself using when House wasn't holding up his end of the bargain. _

"_You promised" was for petty things, and signing off on parental rights hardly fell into that category. So maybe promise wasn't the right word, its definition failing to convey the potency of Becca's betrayal._

_But semantics didn't matter now. Just like unconditional love and sacrifice didn't apparently. _

_All that mattered was the stupid DNA, which, in the eyes of the law, made Becca the only one who mattered in this. _

_And Cuddy could kick, scream, bite, and fight all she wanted, but it wouldn't change things. Because the law didn't care about her side of the argument at all. And that meant she would have to do the one thing she _never_ wanted to do, the one thing Becca had failed to do:_

_She would have to say goodbye._

_She would have to let Joy go. _

_And if doing that didn't kill her, Cuddy thought, she didn't know what would. Because this wasn't just about another failed opportunity at being a mother. _

_She _was_ a mother. _

_This _was_ her daughter. _

_And what Cuddy was saying goodbye to wasn't just the life in the bassinette. It wasn't just Joy Cuddy that would never really exist, save for this aberrant twenty-four hours. It was all of their lives – Joy's and Cuddy's, and everyone else's that might have intersected at some point with them. Because just as this infant wouldn't get to ever again be Joy Cuddy (the plaque on the bassinette had already been changed, Cuddy realized bitterly), Cuddy herself wouldn't live the rest of her days as "Joy's mother." _

_Closing her eyes immediately, she tried not to picture what any of that meant. But images, one by one, assaulted her senses. Little flashes of what being this little girl's Mommy would have been like forcing their way into her consciousness, Cuddy had to let go of Joy's hand to stop herself from keening loudly, her pain so close to the surface. _

_The feeling refusing to subside, she realized just how close to that dark abyss she was. Her unimaginably bottomless well of love for Joy quickly funneling itself into the black hole created from all of her failures, she was teetering on the edge. Her toes dangling off the cliff, Cuddy couldn't help but gaze down into the limitless chasm._

_And in that moment, she realized…_

_She was afraid. _

_She loved Joy more than she had ever thought possible, more than she'd believed her heart capable of producing. And now… if her daughter was to no longer be her daughter… _

_Cuddy didn't want to think about the overwhelming grief waiting for her the moment she walked out of the NICU. _

_So she clasped Joy's hand in hers once more, reasoning that if she were destined to fall into that gaping canyon of heartbreak, then she might as well look into the horizon for as long as she could. She might as well enjoy what this dream that could never be hers had to offer, because she knew: _

_She would not be here again. _

_She would not be anywhere near the edge ever again in the vain hope of grasping things that might be or might have been. She wouldn't take those steps again, knowing that there was a chance she would fall. _

_She could not do _that_ ever again, what little bravery she had slipping from her grasp._

_And so, her gaze, though filled with tears, stayed on Joy until long after the infant had fallen back to sleep. Minutes or hours passing, Cuddy decided it didn't matter. Each second cherished and relished before being stored into some place in her mind that she never wanted to access again, there were so many things she wanted to tell Joy. So many things she would have loved to explain to Joy, had she had the chance. _

_But the words dying on her tongue, all that managed to escape was a strangled and hurried "I love you, goodbye."_

_Quickly, tearfully, Cuddy let go of Joy's hand and turned around. _

_Her calves trembled as she walked away; her heart pounding in her ears louder and more violently with each step she took, Cuddy could feel what little strength she had draining from her. _

_But she did not stop. _

_She did not turn around, her gaze focused on the doors in front of her. The desire to stop and go back to the bassinette burning in the back of her throat, Cuddy had to tell herself no, had to remind herself that she could not say goodbye again. Her pace quickening, she knew:_

_She would not be here again. _

The End


End file.
